*  * 


LADIES 
FROM 
HELL" 

GLAS  PINKERTON 


No.  76132 

PASSPORT 


"LADIES  FROM  HELL' 


UNIT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS 


Sergeant    H.    Douglas    Pinkerton 


"LADIES  FROM  HELL" 


BY 
R.  DOUGLAS  PINKERTON 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH 
PHOTOGRAPHS 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published,  April,  1918 


TO 
THE  GIRL  WHO  WAITED 

MY  MOTHER 


2132261 


FOEEWOED 

I  realize  the  utter  futility  of  writing  a  preface, 
for  no  one  ever  reads  one — unless  by  chance  they 
be  in  a  hospital  or  waiting  in  a  dentist's  office.  It 
is  for  these  unfortunate  few,  then,  that  I  indict  the 
following. 

After  you  have  been  through  the  mill  and  mire 
of  battle,  your  life  is  changed.  It  can  never  be  the 
same  again.  It  seems  that  you  must  still  continue 
to  fight,  even  though  you  be  physically  incapaci- 
tated. 

Therefore  it  is  partially  for  my  own  amusement, 
and  partially  to  continue  my  fight  for  ultimate  vic- 
tory that  I  write  this  book. 

In  it  I  have  endeavored,  in  a  meager  way,  to  tell 
America  what  she  wants  to  know.  You  are  asking 
about  the  same  questions  as  did  England  in  1914 
and  1915.  You  are  in  approximately  the  same 
position  as  was  England  in  those  early  days.  You 
are  beginning  to  discover  that  business  cannot  be 
as  usual,  and  that  war  is  not  all  flag  waving  and 
hurrahing.  You  are  learning,  as  did  we ;  and  may 
a  just  God  grant  that  your  lesson  be  shorter  by  far 
than  was  ours. 


FOREWORD 

My  efforts  will  be  devoted  to  a  truthful  presenta- 
tion of  what  I  saw  and  what  I  know.  There  is 
little  humor  in  warfare.  That  little  I  will  try  to 
preserve.  My  endeavor  will  be  to  loan  you  my 
eyes  for  a  space  that  you  may  see  what  I  saw,  and 
thus  know  your  war — for  it  is  yours — just  a  wee 
bit  better. 

I  hope,  as  you  turn  the  last  page,  that  you  will 
realize  the  true  meaning  of  this  struggle,  that  you 
will  realize  why  I  take  pride  in  having  been  a  mem- 
ber of  the  London  Scottish,  and  that,  above  all  else, 
you  will  realize  the  true  duty  of  your  America  to- 
day. 

In  closing  let  me  express  my  appreciation  to  C. 
H.  Handerson  for  his  assistance  in  arranging  the 
multitudinous  incidents  of  my  fighting  days  in 
some  sort  of  sequence,  and  in  helping  me  to  weave 
them  into  a  connected  story  of  my  little  excursion 
with  "The  Ladies  from  Hell." 

(Signed)  R.  D.  PINKEBTON. 


Copy  of  Telegram  to  Colonel  Malcolm  from 

Field  Marshal  Sir  John  French,  Commander-in-Chief 

of  British  Forces. 

I  wish  you  and  your  splendid  Regiment  to  accept  my 
warmest  congratulations  and  thanks  for  the  fine  work 
you  did  yesterday  at  Messines.  You  have  given  a  glo- 
rious lead  and  example  to  all  Territorial  Troops  who 
are  going  to  fight  in  France. 


Copy  of  Letter  to  Colonel  Malcolm  from 
Major-General  E.  H.  Allenby,  G.  0.  C.  Cavalry  Corps. 

Dear  Colonel, 

I  congratulate  you  on  the  accompanying  message 
from  the  Commauder-in-Chief,  which  you  and  your 
grand  Regiment  have  so  richly  deserved.  I  wish  to 
add  my  sincere  thanks,  and  those  of  the  Cavalry  Corps, 
for  the  self-sacrificing  support  you  gave  in  a  great 
emergency.  The  behaviour  of  officers  and  men  of  the 
London  Scottish  was  worthy  of  the  best  traditions  of 
British  Regular  Troops.  Only  their  steadiness  and 
courage  saved  a  situation  that  was  as  difficult  and  crit- 
ical to  deal  with  as  will  ever  occur. 

Yours  sincerely  and  gratefully, 

(Signed)  E.  H.  ALLENBY, 

Major-General. 


Copy  of  Letter  to  Colonel  Malcolm  from 

Brigadier-General  C.  E.  Bingham,  Commanding  4th 

Cavalry  Brigade. 

My  dear  Colonel, 

I  venture  to  ask  you  to  convey  to  your  Regiment  my 
deepest  gratitude  and  admiration  for  the  work  they 
performed  on  October  31st,  and  through  the  following 
night.  No  troops  in  the  world  could  have  carried  out 
their  orders  better,  and  while  deploring  the  losses  you 
have  incurred,  I  unhesitatingly  affirm  that  the  Allied 
Armies  in  France  owe  to  the  London  Scottish  a  place  of 
high  honour  amongst  their  heroes. 

(Signed)  C.  E.  BINGHAM, 

Br.-Gen.,  4  Cav.  Bde. 
Nov.  1,  1914. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    How  THE  CALL  CAME 3 

II    FRANCE 23 

III  THE  BATTLE  FOR  LILLE 60 

IV  THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS — A  TRENCH 

RAID 84 

V    MR.     FINDLEY'S     GRAVE — TRENCH     LIFE — 

NICHOLS  GOES  WEST 106 

VI    SNIPING — THE  TRAITOR  AT  BETHUNE — WHAT 

HAPPENED  AT  LILLE  .......  130 

VII  THE  FARM-HOUSE  BETWEEN  THE  LINES — 
''SEND  Us  MORE  AMMUNITION" — THE  SPY 
AT  HEADQUARTERS 152 

VIII  THE  BRITISH  AIR  SERVICE  BECOMES 
STRONGER — THE  REFUGEE  FROM  LILLE — 
WE  FIND  OUR  WOUNDED  SERGEANT  .  .  179 

IX  RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH — A  "SEAM- 
SQUIRREL"  RETURNS  TO  ITS  HOME — BACK 
TO  BLIGHTY  AND  THE  HOSPITAL  .  .  .  190 

X    WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR— AND  How  .     .  228 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Sergeant  R.  Douglas  Pinkerton     .      .      .     Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

The  London  Scottish  entraining  for  the  trenches  .     20 
The  Sergeant-Cook's  Instruction  Class   ....     56 

The  London  Scottish  advance  across  a  captured  Ger- 
man trench  .  ....     68 


After  the  day's  work 122 

Advancing  in  skirmish  order  against  the  enemy  .  .  154 
The  London  Scottish  detaching  a  truck  .  .  .  .174 
One  of  our  guardian  angels  ...,,,.  212 


'LADIES  FROM  HELL" 


4  4 


LADIES  FROM  HELL 


CHAPTER  I 

HOW   THE   CALL   CAME 

FROM  a  hospital  cot  in  Flanders  the  story 
came,  from  the  tongue  of  a  jawless,  nameless 
man.  I  and  a  thousand  like  me  read  it,  and  read 
it  again;  then,  along  with  the  other  thousand,  I 
went  down  to  the  drill-hall  to  scrawl  my  name  on 
the  list  of  Great  Britain's  soldiers. 

It  seemed  awfully  odd  to  be  there,  for  only  three 
months  before  I  'd  teetered  on  the  curb,  not  a  block 
away,  and  seen  our  boys  of  the  London  Scottish 
marching  off  for  their  baptism  at  the  front. 
They  'd  swung  along  very  spruce  in  kilt  and  khaki, 
and  in  the  haze  of  August  4  the  war  seemed  a  long 
way  off. 

As  they  passed,  their  pipers  struck  up  that  old 
favorite  of  mine,  "The  Cock  of  the  North,"  and  I 
wished  rather  vaguely  then  that  I  might  have  been 
along  with  them.  The  crowd  cheered  in  a  hearty, 

3 


4  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

happy  way,  and  I  envied  our  boys,  and  I  intended 
to  join  them — sometime.  But  I  delayed,  because, 
like  the  rest  of  us,  I  was  asleep  on  August  4. 

Even  the  boys  in  khaki  underestimated  the  task 
before  them.  They  had  marched  away  before, 
they  'd  been  cheered  and  wished  godspeed  before, 
and  as  old  Johnny  Nixon  passed  me  he  called  out, 
"Hello,  Pink,  old  boy,  I  '11  see  you  again  at  Christ- 
mas"; and  I  and  the  rest  believed  it.  But  that 
was  August  4. 

So  they  marched  away,  gay  and  hilarious,  al- 
most out  for  a  summer  stroll,  and  only  Lord  Kitch- 
ener knew  or  suspected  the  trial  that  was  to  come ; 
and  he  kept  silent. 

To-day  it  was  November  1,  and  of  the  thousand 
who  had  marched  away  only  three  months  before, 
a  scant  three  hundred  remained.  Johnny  Nixon 
had  gone  down  with  the  rest. 

Joffre's  Frenchmen  had  swayed  the  German 
line  back  thirty  miles,  from  Paris  to  the  banks 
of  the  Marne,  and  trench  warfare  had  begun. 
Slowly  we  folks  back  home  began  to  stop  joking 
about  three-year  enlistments  as  an  impossible 
term ;  the  casualty  lists  were  longer,  and  England 
was  waking  up.  And  then  came  the  story  of  Hal- 
lowe'en night.  The  Scottish,  our  Scottish,  whom 
we  'd  seen  go  not  three  months  before,  had  been 
in  action.  They  'd  mobilized  just  outside  of 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  5 

Paris ;  been  rushed  up  in  the  pink  of  evening,  in 
motor-lorries  and  afoot,  to  stop  the  onrushing 
Germans. 

Far  off  to  their  right  they  heard  firing;  like 
breakers  on  the  shore  it  sounded,  dull,  tireless, 
meaningless.  And  then,  as  they  drew  nearer  and 
nearer,  the  sounds  took  on  distinctive  meaning. 
Individual  shell-bursts  separated  themselves  from 
the  vast  jumble  of  noise,  and  then  were  lost  in  the 
ceaseless  roar  to  the  rear. 

It  was  half -past  eight  when  they  got  there,  and 
night  was  just  coming  down.  They  halted  and 
stood  at  ease,  while  their  colonel  climbed  up  on  a 
broken  cart  and  addressed  them.  Then,  with  his 
good  wishes  and  godspeed,  they  stumbled  off  to 
their  trenches,  mere  threads  on  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

On  their  left  were  the  Lancers,  on  the  right  the 
Carabiniers,  both  regular  regiments.  Our  Scot- 
tish were  just  volunteers — volunteers  with  orders 
to  hold  their  ground. 

The  night  wore  on  till  ten  o'clock.  Off  in  the 
distance  they  heard  the  Germans  coming,  flushed 
with  their  victories.  They  made  no  attempt  to 
hide  their  approach,  and  "Die  Wacht  am  Rhein" 
floated  down  to  our  men  in  the  trenches. 

On  they  came ;  one  could  almost  see  them  now, 
but  the  British  had  orders  to  withhold  their  fire 


6  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

until  two  hundred  yards,  and  they  held  it.  Wave 
on  wave  the  German  troops  came  on,  and  wave  on 
Wave  they  were  mowed  down ;  but  there  is  an  end 
to  physical  endurance,  and  in  time  numbers  will 
tell.  The  regular  troops  to  the  right  and  left  fell 
back,  and  left  the  Scottish,  our  Scottish,  alone, 
with  the  cream  of  the  Prussian  Guard  at  their 
front,  on  their  right,  and  on  their  left.  Perhaps 
if  our  boys  had  known  their  predicament  this  page 
would  never  have  been  written;  but,  being  just 
volunteers,  they  had  only  their  orders  to  go  by, 
and  they  fought  on  and  on. 

There  were  only  a  thousand  of  them,  and  three 
times  they  formed  up  their  thinning  ranks.  On 
their  third  attempt  the  Prussians  broke  and  fled, 
and  our  boys  returned  to  their  lines,  leaving  some 
five  hundred  and  fifty  behind  in  the  mud  and  mire 
of  old  Flanders. 

But  that  isn't  all  the  story.  Back  with  them 
came  a  stranger,  a  German  officer.  A  bit  of  a 
scratch  on  the  head  had  knocked  him  out  for  a 
time,  and  our  stretcher-bearers  carried  him  in, 
along  with  our  own  wounded  and  dead. 

In  those  days  (we  have  learned  more  since)  we 
knew  nothing  of  German  Kultur.  In  those  inno- 
cent, early  days  a  wounded  man  was  a  wounded 
man,  no  matter  what  his  creed  or  his  color  or  his 
race.  So  our  boys  took  the  German  and  treated 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  7 

him  as  one  of  their  own,  and  turned  him  over  to 
old  Doc  McNab  for  attention. 

It  was  only  a  wee  bit  of  a  scratch  he  had ;  but 
Doc  leaned  over  him  first,  while  our  own  wounded 
and  dying  lay  waiting,  and  as  he  finished  his  work 
the  officer  asked  for  a  drink  from  his  bottle,  which 
he  had  thrown  down  on  the  floor. 

Gad,  we  were  innocent  then !  They  'd  not  even 
bothered  to  remove  the  Hun's  service  revolver, 
which  dangled  from  a  strap  at  his  side ;  and,  as  old 
Doc  McNab  leaned  over,  the  German's  right  arm 
twitched,  there  was  a  flash,  and  a  tiny  thud.  The 
Teuton  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  revolver  still 
grasped  in  his  hand,  but  old  Doc  McNab  lay  still 
where  he  'd  fallen. 

That  was  the  story  that  came  from  the  hospital 
cot  in  Flanders.  It  was  enough  for  me.  I  awoke. 
And  when  I  got  to  the  drill-hall  there  was  no  mis- 
taking the  place,  for  from  a  block  away  you  could 
see  the  crowd.  A  long,  thin  line  of  young  fellows 
wound  in  and  out  of  that  crowd,  each  in  the  grip 
of  that  story  of  the  night  before.  I  took  my  place 
at  the  end  of  the  line  and  waited. 

Hours  passed. 

In  the  meantime  the  line  strung  itself  far  out 
into  the  street,  for  from  all  over  the  country  men 
had  come  swarming  in.  Tall,  lanky  Scots  they 
were  mostly,  from  up  northward,  crystallized  into 


8  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

a  solid  fighting  mass  by  the  story  of  the  Marne  and 
the  tale  of  the  London  Scottish. 

In  that  line  there  was  little  talk,  though  the 
crowd  hummed  like  a  hive.  We  volunteers  were 
silent.  Here  and  there  perhaps  was  a  burst  of 
laughter,  but  it  was  rare.  Most  of  us  were  think- 
ing, and  thinking  hard.  As  the  hours  crept  slowly 
by  and  I  shifted  from  one  tired  foot  to  the  other, 
the  enthusiasm  which  had  filled  me  at  the  start 
began  slowly  to  ooze  out  and  away. 

"Was  it  worth  it?"  I  questioned.  "Belgium 
outraged,  treaties  broken,  friends  gone,  and  I  was 
going;  but  was  it  worth  it,  after  all?" 

And  other  men  were  debating,  too.  Dark 
scowls  of  self -analysis  clouded  many  a  face  in  that 
line,  but  not  a  man  stepped  out ;  for  the  glorious 
example  of  the  London  Scottish,  the  thoughts  of 
our  friends,  and  the  empty  cheer  that  "perhaps 
we  wouldn't  see  action,  anyway, "  combined  to 
hold  us  in  line. 

I  might  as  well  be  frank.  Four  hours  of  wait- 
ing on  a  chill  November  day  is  likely  to  take  the 
romance  out  of  even  war  itself.  But  there  was 
enough  of  romance  there,  just  enough  and  no 
more,  to  hold  me  in  that  line  from  four  until  eight 
that  night. 

At  eight  came  my  turn  to  be  examined.  A 
brusk  and  worn  officer,  dark  and  pouched  under 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  9 

the  eyes,  peered  up  at  me  in  an  impersonal  sort  of 
way  from  under  his  vizor.  He  took  down  such 
minor  details  as  my  name  and  address,  and  di- 
rected me  to  step  into  an  anteroom,  where  I 
stripped,  and  then  I  was  ushered  into  another 
room  with  two  or  three  other  chaps. 

Here  we  were  hurriedly  examined  for  physical 
defects,  and  a  flush  of  primeval  pride  crept  over 
me  as  they  fled  from  my  ears  to  my  eyes  and  from 
my  eyes  to  my  feet  without  finding  anything  the 
matter.  Long  and  tediously  they  lingered  over 
my  feet  and  knees  and  leg  muscles.  The  wait  be- 
came painful,  so  thorough  was  their  work  about 
these  apparently  unimportant  parts  of  my  anat- 
omy; but  at  last  I  was  officially  marked  as  0.  K. 
and  fit  for  service. 

Little  attention  had  been  paid  to  my  peculiar 
fitness,  by  either  education  or  experience,  for  any 
particular  branch  of  the  service.  These  tired  and 
hurried  men  in  khaki  seemed  much  more  inter- 
ested in  how  soon  I  could  report  for  active  duty 
than  in  aught  else  concerning  me.  There  was 
nothing  about  my  examination  that  would  lead  the 
casual  observer  to  think  that  Great  Britain  had 
spent  time  or  forethought  in  selecting  from  this 
mob  of  men  those  specially  skilled  in  this  or  that 
branch  of  industry.  We  were  men,  all  of  us,  just 
men,  and  Great  Britain  wanted  men,  and  in  those 


10  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

dark  days  of  1914  many  a  man  who  could  have 
served  his  country  better  at  the  bench  or  in  the 
workshop  was  rushed  trenchward  and  lost,  with 
all  his  potential  usefulness. 

Hastily  I  dressed  and  joined  the  silent  group  of 
some  fifty  or  sixty  other  chaps  who  waited  in  an 
anteroom  to  the  right.  There  we  stood,  staring 
morbidly  at  one  another.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  said ;  comradeship  was  banished  by  the  solem- 
nity of  the  moment.  Occasionally  a  time-worn 
joke  would  be  passed  among  the  groups,  and  the 
laughter  was  just  a  trifle  forced  and  hollow. 
Some  of  us  made  brave  attempts  to  hide  our 
thoughts — thoughts  of  home  and  mother,  fam- 
ily, and  all  that.  What  little  talk  there  was 
was  rough,  inclined  to  braggadocio,  punctu- 
ated by  laughter  that  rang  peculiarly  out  of 
place,  like  laughter  in  a  doctor's  office  or  in  a 
morgue. 

Abruptly  the  door  opened,  and  we  were  herded 
into  a  darkened  room.  At  a  table  sat  an  officer  in 
uniform  rumpling  through  a  mass  of  blue  and 
yellow  papers.  Before  him  stood  an  ink-well  and 
a  Bible.  A  hooded  light  cast  weird  shadows  over 
us,  and  we  stood  about,  first  on  one  foot,  then  on 
the  other,  and  waited.  For  a  time  he  worked  fev- 
erishly, meanwhile  grunting  out  hoarse,  unintel- 
ligible orders  to  a  pale  and  anemic-looking  chap 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  11 

who  dashed  in  and  out  of  the  room  like  some 
automaton. 

Suddenly — so  suddenly  that  most  of  us  jumped 
— he  stood  up,  and  swung  the  Bible  over  his  head 
with  the  habitual  movement  of  a  man  practising 
his  morning  exercise. 

" Raise  your  right  hands  and  repeat  after  me," 
said  he.  A  forest  of  hands  shot  up,  and  we  re- 
peated, word  for  word,  the  solemn  oath  of  alleg- 
iance of  the  British  Army. 

"I  hereby  swear  by  Almighty  God  that  I  will 
bear  faithful  and  true  allegiance  to  His  Majesty 
King  George  V,  his  heirs  and  successors,  and  will 
obey  as  in  duty  bound  commands  of  all  officers  set 
over  me,  so  help  me  God. ' ' 

"Now  kiss  the  Book,"  said  he,  and  we  kissed 
that  dog-eared  volume  with  various  degrees  of 
explosiveness  and  enthusiasm. 

I  was  now  a  soldier  of  the  British  Empire.  I 
had  been  duly  accepted  and  sworn,  and,  truth- 
fully, I  was  rather  disappointed  at  the  feeling.  I 
looked  no  different,  I  felt  no  different,  unless  it 
was  for  a  sense  of  duty  done  and  suspense  ended. 
I  was  rather  dazed,  but  at  a  pointed  hint  from  the 
recruiting  officer  I  picked  up  my  hat  and  departed 
for  the  quartermaster's  stores.  It  was  now  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  and  the  order  was  to  appear  the 
next  morning  at  nine. 


12  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

The  details  of  our  preliminary  training  in  Lon- 
don would  be  of  little  interest  to  the  average 
reader.  It  varied  little  from  that  now  being  given 
your  boys  at  their  respective  camps. 

The  short  days  of  November  and  December  flew 
by  quickly  enough,  with  marching  and  counter- 
marching, bayonet-fighting,  and  light  field  work, 
all  intensely  interesting  at  the  time,  but  soon  for- 
gotten in  the  new  duties  and  new  excitements  that 
were  thrust  upon  us. 

Gradually  our  flabby  civilian  muscles  took  on  a 
more  sturdy  texture.  The  kinks  crept  out  of  our 
desk-bent  backs,  and  our  sallow  civilian  skins  be- 
came bronzed  with  a  rosy  admixture  of  sheer 
health,  while  the  seventy-five-pound  service  kit 
ceased  to  be  a  herculean  burden  of  leaden  weight. 

As  we  marched  and  fought  our  mimic  wars, 
grim  reports  drifted  back  to  us  from  the  firing- 
line  in  France,  sometimes  mere  haunting  rumors, 
sometimes  the  sullen  facts  themselves;  and  our 
faces  grew  grimmer,  our  practice  less  mechanical 
and  more  intense.  Something  of  the  spirit  that 
had  dominated  the  London  Scottish  on  Hallowe'en 
came  to  us,  and  all  sense  of  dread,  conscious  or 
unconscious,  vanished.  But  the  gulf  between  us 
and  civilian  London  grew  ever  wider.  We  were 
nothing  to  them  but  a  passing  show,  interesting, 
perhaps,  as  an  incarnation  of  the  fighting  spirit 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  13 

of  England,  with  a  certain  charm  as  examples  of 
the  impetuosity  of  youth,  nothing  more.  England 
slept,  though  the  war  was  already  in  the  fifth 
month  of  horrible  reality.  The  people  of  the 
London  streets,  the  happy,  care-free,  busy  throngs, 
drifted  on  in  a  mist  of  unreality,  while  we  lived, 
and  lived  intensely.  Not  that  they  could  fairly 
be  blamed,  however.  It  was  not  their  fault  that 
they  looked  so  resolutely  the  other  way  while  Lou- 
vain  and  Rheims  and  Ypres  were  shattered  and 
burned.  We  soldiers  received  news,  some  of  it 
authentic,  some  sheer  rumor.  But  no  such  news 
ever  reached  '  *  the  man  in  the  street. ' '  He  was  an 
outsider. 

The  newspapers  were  hammering  out  ream  on 
ream  concerning  the  brutality  toward  Belgium. 
Dark  hints  occasionally  burst  forth,  flickered  on 
the  popular  tongue,  and  died.  An  uncompromis- 
ing, uneducated  censorship  kept  the  real  facts 
darkly  closeted,  and  though  the  newspapers  knew 
much,  their  inky  lips  were  shut,  and  the  masses 
devoured  miles  of  newsless  news,  while  the  facts 
crawled  from  lip  to  lip,  and  only  empty  rumor 
told  the  truth.  When  some  fact,  red  from  the 
firing-line,  actually  did  slip  from  under  the  clumsy 
thumb  of  our  early  censorship,  enlistments 
doubled  and  trebled  and  quadrupled  instantly. 
A  Zeppelin  raid,  fortunately,  could  not  be  stowed 


14  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

away  in  a  musty  cubbyhole,  and  hence  did  yeo- 
man's service  for  our  recruiting  officers.  But 
while  the  civilian,  fed  on  vague  nothings  for  the 
most  part,  dreamed  on  peacefully,  we  soldiers  in 
the  making,  who  received  the  real  news  from  re- 
turning veterans,  blazed  in  earnest  fury  to  be  done 
with  our  training,  and  over  and  at  the  enemy  in 
fact. 

Late  in  December  came  orders  to  inoculate  us 
for  typhoid,  and  we  rejoiced,  for  we  knew  that  our 
days  in  London  were  now  numbered.  When  the 
medical  chaps  appeared,  we  lined  up  dutifully  and 
laughingly  watched  their  advance.  No  more  vil- 
lainous-looking array  of  venomous  little  needles 
had  I  ever  seen  before. 

Now,  a  typhoid  inoculation  is  a  simple  thing. 
Like  marriage,  one  never  appreciates  it  at  its  true 
value  until  later.  As  fast  as  we  were  treated,  we 
were  given  forty-eight  hours  *  leave  of  absence, 
"on  our  own,"  surely  a  silly  precaution  for  such  a 
tiny  pin-prick!  But  the  omnipresent  brain  of 
headquarters  seldom  errs  in  its  directions,  nor  did 
it  err  this  time,  for  I  was  scarcely  half-way  home 
when  I  was  seized  with  a  sudden  and  unaccount- 
able clammy  coldness  that  traversed  my  spine  in 
elephantine  shudders.  I  chattered  into  the  house, 
a  picture  of  frozen  misery.  All  afternoon  I 
hugged  the  roaring  fire  in  an  agony  of  chills,  all 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  15 

night  I  shook  and  chattered  gloomily  to  myself 
upon  a  bed  piled  high  with  blankets.  Not  till 
the  wee  small  hours  of  morning  did  I  cease  to 
curse  the  idle  jests  that  I  had  flung  at  the  toy 
weapon  of  that  grinning  medical  officer. 

Then  came  notice  that  we  would  start  for  our 
intensive  and  final  training  at  Dorking,  on  Jan- 
uary 1.  With  this  news  came  the  Christmas  holi- 
days, and  some  of  us  who  were  among  the  fortu- 
nate romped  homeward,  bursting  with  health. 

Not  even  all  the  spoiling  I  got  at  home,  however, 
during  those  few  days,  and  the  real  pang  I  felt  at 
leaving,  could  dull  my  enthusiasm  when  I  went 
back  to  join  my  regiment,  bound  for  Dorking,  the 
first  step  toward  France. 

Dorking  is,  or  rather  was  before  our  arrival,  a 
little  town  of  some  five  thousand  inhabitants ;  but 
by  December  its  population  had  doubled,  and  sol- 
diery swarmed  its  streets  by  day  and  night.  The 
town  faded  into  the  background  like  a  frightened 
child,  and  the  inevitable  kilt  brightened  an  other- 
wise colorless  winter  landscape. 

From  six-thirty  in  the  morning  until  five-thirty 
at  night,  and  often  until  the  gray  of  coming  dawn, 
we  drilled  and  drilled  and  played  at  fighting. 
Thousands  of  straw  Teutons  were  annihilated 
daily.  Our  rifles,  at  first  clumsy  clubs  in  our 
hands,  gradually  became  a  part  and  parcel  of  us 


16  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

and  of  our  daily  lives;  and  happily  so,  for  when 
you  are  plowing  through  the  mud  of  no-man's 
land  the  only  friend  you  have  is  your  rifle.  No 
single  piece  of  training  stood  me  in  better  stead 
than  the  incessant  training  at  handling  our  Lee- 
Enfields. 

Our  rule-practice  might  destroy  some  of  the 
cherished  delusions  of  the  arm-chair  theorists. 
The  ranges  were  usually  from  two  hundred  to  six 
hundred  yards.  It  is  within  that  zone  that  the 
rule-bullet  does  its  sweetest  work,  and  at  two 
hundred  yards,  when  a  wild  mob  of  howling  Huns 
are  belching  down  upon  you,  or  you  on  them,  the 
dainty  rifle-sight  is  well-nigh  forgotten.  Its  coy 
outlines  are  those  of  a  stranger  dimly  seen  and 
hardly  recognized.  You  slap  your  rifle  to  your 
shoulder;  no  time  for  fancy  beads  and  adjust- 
ments of  wind-gage.  It  is  just  a  case  of  shoot, 
shoot  hard  and  fast,  and  may  a  kind  Providence 
and  a  skilful  doctor  look  after  the  poor  man  who 
fritters  away  his  precious  seconds  in  pretty  loga- 
rithms. 

At  the  front,  unless  you  're  sniping,  the  rifle- 
sight  well-nigh  loses  its  identity.  Fine,  hair-split- 
ting arguments  about  it  are  forgotten,  and  sheer 
instinct,  guided  by  the  rifle-barrel's  blackened 
bulk,  is  enough,  as  the  notches  that  might  decorate 
any  Tommy's  gun  would  indicate. 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  17 

Don't  misunderstand  me.  The  rifle  is  no  ap- 
prentice tool.  It  is  not  used  to  hammer  nails  or 
tacks.  With  all  his  apparent  nonchalance  and 
carelessness,  your  Tommy  or  your  poilu  (Fritz, 
too,  I  dare  say)  regards  his  rifle  as  his  most  cher- 
ished pet.  He  puts  in  hours  a  week  upon  its 
pretty  mechanism,  oiling,  polishing,  truing,  always 
and  everywhere;  for  the  canny  Tommy  knows 
from  cruel  experience  that  the  day  may  come  when 
between  him  and  the  grim  reaper  with  a  German 
name  stands  only  the  shadow  of  his  rifle. 

Winter  settled  down,  and  with  its  shortened 
days  the  pace  became  faster,  the  training  harder, 
always  harder.  Kegular  hours'?  We  had  none. 
It  was  just  train,  train,  train,  from  field  to  rifle- 
range,  from  rifle-range  to  field  again.  Play  it 
was,  hard  play,  but  news  from  across  the  channel 
spurred  us  on,  and  we  yearned  to  be  over  helping, 
and  avenging  our  brothers  who  had  gone  before. 

But  the  end  was  nearer  than  we  knew. 

At  4:30  one  morning  (it  was  ghastly  cold, 
with  three  or  four  inches  of  mica-like  snow 
swirling  underfoot  and  rasping  into  the  bare 
flesh)  we  were  routed  out  of  our  bunks  to  entrain 
for  Epsom  Downs.  Like  lightning  the  word  ran 
down  the  line :  we  were  to  be  reviewed  by  the  Iron 
Man  of  the  British  Army,  Lord  Kitchener  him- 
self. 


18  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

By  5:30  we  were  on  our  way,  and  in  a  short 
half-hour  we  tumbled  out  of  our  refrigerated 
coaches  into  the  most  blinding  snow-storm  of  the 
year.  Through  it  we  trudged,  each  an  animated 
snow-man,  and  then  from  six  until  eight-thirty 
that  morning  we  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  great 
Lord  K.  of  K. 

But  it  was  worth  the  wait.  A  splendid  figure 
he  was,  big  upstanding,  a  man's  man  from  his 
boots,  black  against  the  snow,  to  the  vizor  of  his 
immaculate  cap,  impervious  alike  to  man's  petty 
criticisms  and  God's  storms. 

Chattering  with  cold,  we  marched  by  in  stiff 
review,  and  then  lined  up  before  him  and  listened 
as  his  big  voice  boomed  out  above  us,  brief,  terse, 
to  the  point,  a  message  worth  the  hearing. 

"Men  of  the  London  Scottish,  you  have  a  record 
to  uphold.  Three  things  only  would  I  leave  with 
you  to-day,  you  soldiers  of  the  British  Empire. 
First,  fear  God;  second,  honor  your  king;  and 
third,  respect  the  women."  His  voice  caught, 
and  he  repeated  with  added  emphasis,  "Respect 
the  women." 

Then,  with  a  brief  nod  of  dismissal,  he  thanked 
and  congratulated  our  colonel  for  the  splendid 
appearance  of  his  men,  and  disappeared  into  the 
blinding  snows. 

No  trains  were  waiting  to  bear  us  back.    They 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  19 

had  long  since  gone  about  other  and  more  im- 
portant business,  and  we  were  left  to  plow  home- 
ward through  fifteen  miles  of  sodden  sleet  and 
slush. 

Then  came  the  call ;  one  hundred  and  fifty  of  us 
were  going  to  France  immediately.  Some  kind 
fate  smiled  on  me,  and  I  was  among  the  first  of  our 
battalion  to  be  selected.  There  were  brief,  but 
hearty,  congratulations  from  the  unfortunates  who 
remained  behind,  and  we  of  the  favored  few  were 
off  for  forty-eight  hours '  leave  before  entraining 
for  Southampton. 

Forty-eight  hours  is  a  niggardly  enough  allow- 
ance for  some  occasions,  but  forty-eight  hours 
before  departing  for  the  battle-front  is  an  ever- 
lasting hell  of  torment.  My  first  advice  to  any 
soldier  in  similar  circumstances  is  to  go  to  the 
theater,  the  tavern,  go  to  any  place  but  the  place 
you  want  to  go,  home.  I  say  this  because  I  know 
what  those  last  forty-eight  hours  cost  my  mother, 
though  she  showed  the  terrific  strain  but  little. 

It  was  a  Sunday  night;  I  remember  we  had 
been  to  church  together;  my  mother,  my  sisters 
and  my  little  dog,  Kags,  walked  to  the  sta- 
tion with  me.  I  wished  devoutly  that  they  had 
stayed  at  home,  and  yet  I  valued  every  minute 
with  them  as  my  life,  and  blessed  the  long  walk 
and  the  belated  train. 


20  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

All  about  us  were  other  men  and  other  women, 
some  talking  excitedly,  feverishly  trying  to  cram 
into  a  moment  the  thoughts  and  hopes  and  prayers 
of  a  lifetime.  Others  stood  silently,  crowded 
close  together,  seeming  to  suck  some  modicum  of 
comfort  from  their  very  nearness.  Porters — 
there  were  porters  then — brushed  past  with  pro- 
fessional zeal ;  trains  shrieked  and  roared ;  people 
came  and  went,  bumped  us,  jostled  us,  but  we  felt 
them  not  a  bit.  We  and  those  others  about  us 
were  living  in  the  past  and  the  future,  and  all  man- 
kind might  have  roared  by  and  we  would  not  have 
seen  or  felt  their  going. 

Even  the  little  children  seemed  awed  by  the 
unaccustomed  atmosphere  about  them.  Women 
with  babies  in  their  arms  held  them  up  for  a  last 
fond  caress  of  a  khaki-clad  father,  not  too  proud 
to  show  a  glistening  eye.  One  chap — he  sat  next 
to  me — was  going  back  for  the  second  time,  and 
he  leaned  far  out  of  the  quaint  old  English  coach 
to  implant  a  last  kiss  upon  the  candy-covered 
lips  of  a  pink  little  cherub. 

My  mother  watched  and  chatted  until  the  final 
preliminary  jerk  told  us  that  we  were  on  our  way. 
Then  she  waved  gaily  to  me,  and  flung  me  a  last 
brave  kiss.  I  thought  I  saw  her  lips  quiver  for  an 
instant,  but  she  bent  to  pick  up  Rags,  who  was 
making  frantic  efforts  to  board  the  train,  and 


HOW  THE  CALL  CAME  21 

when  she  straightened  again  her  eyes  smiled, 
steady  and  brave,  above  his  wriggling  body. 

At  London  we  entrained  for  Southampton  amid 
the  cheering  strains  of  that  ancient  Scottish  dirge, 
"Will  Ye  nae  Come  back  again,"  truly  an  in- 
spiring note  to  waft  after  a  bunch  of  trench-bound 
soldiers.  At  Southampton  we  were  given  the 
allegorical  keys  to  the  city  and  more  freedom  than 
was  good  for  some  of  rs.  The  group  to  which  I 
attached  myself  made  a  valiant,  but  wholly  vain, 
endeavor  to  consume  the  entire  stock  of  some 
score  or  more  ale-houses,  and  the  results  were  not 
unusual. 

I  must  admit  that  I  have  only  faint  recollections 
of  a  rather  rough  and  toilsome  journey  to  the 
camp-grounds.  There  was  a  moment  of  awful 
concentration  as  I  endeavored  to  gather  my  scat- 
tered wits  sufficiently  to  pass  muster  as  a  soldier, 
sober  and  sedate.  Then  came  an  agony  of  fear 
as  I  realized  that  I  had  failed  in  my  endeavor ;  but 
a  kindly  provost  marshal  shut  his  experienced  eye, 
and  looked  the  other  way,  and  the  only  punishment 
that  awaited  me  was  the  usual  morning  of  repent- 
ant thirst,  and  an  awful  fear  of  the  effects  of 
the  channel-crossing  upon  my  addled  pate  and 
stomach. 

At  dusk,  the  following  evening,  we  embarked 
for  France,  cheered  on  by  half  of  Southampton. 


.22  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

The  dock  was  as  black  as  the  Styx  itself,  but  the 
ship  was  even  blacker.  There  were  the  usual 
false  starts  and  cries  of  late  arrivals,  the  usual 
turmoil  and  bustle,  and  then,  as  the  chimes  struck 
out  eight  o'clock,  the  dock  noises  suddenly  became 
dimmer,  as  if  a  multitude  of  gauze-like  curtains 
had  been  let  down  between  us  and  them. 

We  were  off.  At  the  Southampton  bar  two 
powerful  search-lights  cut  through  the  night  and 
pinned  us  to  the  darkness.  Through  their  rays 
flashed  a  torpedo-boat  destroyer,  a  dashing  black 
shadow  smothered  in  spray.  Semaphores  wig- 
wagged up  and  down;  a  search-light  wavered 
drunkenly.  The  tiny  destroyer  dashed  to  star- 
board and  encircled  us,  round  and  round,  like  some 
joy-crazed  fox-terrier  pup.  Our  engines  increased 
their  steady  thumping,  and  we  were  off — off  for 
France ! 


CHAPTER  II 

FRANCE 

CHOPPY  channel  seas,  proverbial  the  world 
over,  a  reeling  world  underfoot,  scudding 
clouds,  bully  beef,  hardtack,  and  a  night  of  well- 
earned,  but  unwisely  spent,  revelry,  mixed  with 
the  same  gladsome  cordiality  that  distinguishes 
oil  and  water.  From  eight  that  evening  until  mid- 
night, I  decorated  an  unsteady,  but  extremely 
popular,  rail.  But  who  shall  say  that  even  the 
darkest  cloud  has  not  its  silver  lining?  Had  it  not 
been  for  that  ill-timed  mixture  of  tempest  and 
toddy,  midnight  would  not  have  brought  with  it 
a  sight  that  will  cling  to  me  until  my  last  reveille 
dies  away. 

We  were  four  hours  out,  fighting  through  solid 
sheets  of  salty  spray,  when  away  off  to  the  east 
a  dim  glow  welled  up  from  the  horizon.  By  in- 
distinguishable degrees  it  grew  into  a  ball  of 
yellow  light,  and  a  hospital  ship  rushed  out  from 
the  mist,  homeward  bound,  with  its  pathetic  cargo. 

White  as  bleached  linen  she  was,  with  a  huge 
red  cross  of  mercy  painted  on  her  side  and  illumi- 

23 


24  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

nated  to  all  the  neighboring  seas  by  a  powerful 
search-light  hung  from  her  rail.  Brilliantly 
lighted  at  her  foremasthead  was  a  tremendous 
Red  Cross  flag,  held  out  stiff  and  taut  by  the 
nipping  breeze.  At  the  stern  a  Union  Jack  floated, 
and  about  her  rail  a  band  of  alternate  white  and 
green  lights  set  this  ship  apart,  beyond  all  mis- 
taking, as  a  vessel  that  held  nothing  that  she 
feared  to  show. 

As  far  as  you  can  see  her  a  hospital  ship  is  a 
hospital  ship  and  nothing  else.  Out  of  the  night, 
like  a  torch,  she  springs,  and  into  the  night  she 
speeds,  bound  for  Blighty,  for  home.  Such  ships 
it  is,  these  white  messengers  of  mercy,  plainly 
marked,  that  the  Hun  sinks  "by  inadvertence." 
She  passed,  and  we  held  on  our  course  through  the 
thick  blackness  of  the  night. 

Out  of  the  morning  mist  came  France,  and  down 
to  the  boat  to  meet  us  pushed  a  great  somber- 
colored  throng,  of  women  mostly.  There  were  a 
few  men,  old  fellows,  and  a  scattering  of  chatter- 
ing little  children. 

Color!  There  was  none;  it  was  black  every- 
where. Even  in  those  early  days  France  was  a 
mourning  nation.  The  Marne  had  cost.  Mons 
had  cost.  They  are  four  years  past,  and  still,  even 
to-day,  France  fights  on. 

The  France  of  the  boulevardes  and  cafes  is 


FRANCE  25 

not  and  never  has  been  the  real  France,  any  more 
than  the  children  of  your  comic  supplements  are 
the  real  children  of  America.  The  real  France  is 
a  nation  of  impenetrable  depth  and  strength,  grim 
and  everlasting. 

As  we  skipped  off  from  the  boat,  the  cheery 
faces  of  a  few  American  women  called  to  us.  Be- 
fore them  were  great  piles  of  rolls  that  tasted  like 
home,  and  huge  urns  of  steaming  coffee  belched 
forth  untold  gallons  of  renewed  life  to  wave-worn 
Tommies. 

You  can  have  no  realization  of  how  delicious 
a  roll  and  a  steaming  cup  of  coffee  can  be  until  be- 
hind you  is  a  night  on  the  English  Channel,  and 
before  you  France  and  the  fighting-line. 

Up  into  the  railroad  yards  we  moved,  after  a 
brief  rest,  and  then  war — the  first  intimation  of 
it — jumped  out  at  us.  Gone  were  the  English 
coaches,  with  their  unappreciated  comforts.  Be- 
fore us  was  a  string  of  very  ordinary  and  very 
dingy  box-cars,  boldly  labeled : 

Hommes  40 
Chevaux  20 

The  above,  which  was  translated  by  the  more 
worldly-wise  among  us,  referred  to  the  ability  of 
said  cars  to  carry  forty  men  or  twenty  horses. 
Personally,  I  am  convinced  that  some  one  made  a 


26  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

grievous  error  in  figuring  the  carrying  capacity 
of  these  cars.  I  was  one  of  the  forty  "homines" 
in  one  of  them,  and  the  proverbial  sardine  must 
feel  lonely  in  comparison  to  us.  Twelve  hours  of 
jolting  added  nothing  to  our  joy,  although  it  served 
to  shake  us  into  a  more  perfect  fit  within  the  car. 
Never  will  I  complain  of  the  five  o'clock  rush  on 
your  street-cars.  With  all  its  horrors,  it  is  a 
stroll  in  the  park,  compared  with  a  twelve-hour 
massage  in  an  antiquated  perambulator,  labeled 
by  some  practical  joker,  "Homines  40,  Chevaux 
20." 

Kouen,  our  destination,  was  a  funny,  squat  little 
town,  amusing  in  the  extreme  to  us  of  London's 
busy  thoroughfares.  We  whistled  our  way  along 
its  funny  little  cobbled  streets  just  as  church  was 
letting  out,  for  it  was  Sunday.  Lined  up  on  each 
side  of  us  were  rows  of  chattering  French  folk, 
three  deep.  Apparently  the  war  was  forgotten 
for  the  moment,  and  we  in  our  kilts  became  the 
chief  topic  of  discussion.  Gay  jests  were  thrown 
out  at  us,  and  were  returned  in  kind,  but  the 
Frenchmen  had  the  best  of  it.  I  remember  one 
little  gamin,  with  the  shrill  yelp  of  the  street 
urchin,  nearly  wrecked  the  regiment  by  loudly 
calling  attention  in  surprisingly  good  English  to 
the  marvelous  shapeliness  of  our  captain's  legs. 

The  enjoyment,  however,  was  not  all  on  the 


FRANCE  27 

side  of  the  populace.  We  of  the  London  Scottish, 
many  of  us  bred  among  the  rattle  of  trams  and 
the  roar  of  trains,  found  plenty  that  was  novel 
in  the  curious  old  town.  Its  fifteenth  century 
architecture,  its  thatched  roofs,  its  jagged  sky- 
line, and  whitewashed  walls  reminded  one 
strangely  of  the  second  act  in  one  of  Eaymond 
Hitchcock 's  comic  operas.  I  almost  expected  to 
see  the  inevitable  brewer  from  Milwaukee  rush 
in,  escorted  by  two  wax-mustached  gendarmes  and 
followed  by  a  weeping  soubrette  and  a  crowd  of 
irate  villagers.  There  were  plenty  of  soubrettes 
and  villagers ;  we  lacked  only  the  German  brewer. 
He,  and  a  hundred  thousand  like  him,  were  forty 
miles  away. 

Our  camp,  or  base,  was  at  the  top  of  a  hill  over- 
looking the  town.  Long  avenues,  cobbled  with 
unthinkably  cobbly  cobble-stones  and  lined  with 
funereal-looking  poplars,  stretched  away  before 
us.  Neat  little  houses,  each  with  its  flaming 
garden,  broke  up  the  wayside  into  homey  patches 
of  color.  Over  it  all  swam  the  dust  from  our 
pounding  feet. 

At  the  base  we  were  given  a  riotous  welcome 
by  the  older  soldiers,  some  of  whom  had  already 
gone,  to  return  slightly  wounded,  while  others 
had  yet  to  see  the  whitish,  cotton-like  plume  of 
exploding  shrapnel. 


28  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Friendships  were  struck  up  immediately;  word 
from  England  was  exchanged  at  par  for  word 
from  the  fighting-line.  In  time,  facts  gave  way 
to  rumor,  rumor  to  gossip,  and  at  last  gossip 
itself  resigned  to  the  unceasing  chaffing  and 
friendly  " strafing"  that  is  a  sign  of  healthy,  happy 
camp-life. 

The  days  were  largely  our  own,  and  the  mo- 
tion-picture theater  and  the  canteen,  with  its 
delicacies,  did  a  land-office  business.  Fifteen 
thousand  of  us  boys  were  there.  What  little 
routine  we  had  was  similar  to  that  of  the  training- 
camp  back  home,  but  there  was  a  slight  difference. 
The  orders  were  sharper,  the  officers  looked  more 
tired  and  careworn.  Everywhere  there  was  an 
atmosphere  of  tension  and  strain,  a  waiting  for 
the  call  that  would  start  us  flying  trenchward. 

And  one  night,  at  9:30,  that  call  came.  I 
and  a  dozen  or  so  of  my  new-found  pals  were 
attending  a  moving-picture  show.  I  remember 
that  Charlie  Chaplin  had  just  completed  some 
target  practice  with  a  large  and  succulent  cream 
pie  when  the  alarm  rang  out.  We  dashed  out 
into  the  night  without  ceremony.  At  the  alarm- 
post  was  our  officer.  The  Germans  were  breaking 
through  our  lines.  We  were  to  be  off  immediately. 
We  stumbled  away  through  the  dark  to  get  our 
packs;  and  then  the  bugle  sounded  again,  and  it 


FRANCE  29 

was  announced  that  we  would  move  early  in  the 
morning. 

It  was  a  real  relief  to  know  that  after  five  or 
six  months  of  training  we  were  to  be  released 
from  the  leash  and  freed  to  do  our  bit.  Like 
prize-fighters  were  we,  in  the  pink  of  condition, 
eager  for  the  gong  and  the  test.  Our  bodies 
were  rested,  our  spirits  superabundant.  Fear? 
There  was  none.  There  was  no  room  for  fear  in 
the  excitement  of  the  moment,  for  to-morrow  we 
were  to  become,  in  deadly  earnest,  members  of 
Great  Britain's  fighting  forces,  and  we  longed  for 
sun-up,  as  a  school-boy  longs  for  Christmas 
morning. 

Sun-up  finally  came,  red,  then  yellow,  and  a 
glorious  morning  unrolled  from  the  east  as  we 
marched  away  to  the  railroad  station  and  the  train 
that  was  to  take  us  to  the  front. 

The  scenery  was  no  longer  a  novelty,  but,  in  our 
intoxication,  peculiar  modes  of  dress,  and  odd  col- 
loquialisms gained  a  renewed  amusement  for  us, 
and  were  again  held  up  to  rude  banter  and  ridicule. 
But  the  French  laughed  with  us  at  our  jokes  or 
at  our  French ;  for  they  had  come  to  know  Tommy, 
and  they  knew  that  his  bark  was  a  hundred  times 
worse  than  his  bite. 

The  British  Tommy,  you  know,  is  not  a  bad 
man  at  heart.  He  loves  to  chaff  and  chatter,  and 


30  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

the  French  have  come  to  love  him,  with  all  his 
faults,  almost  as  well  as  they  love  their  own  poilus. 
There  is  something  so  solid  and  stolid  about  the 
British  Tommy  that  it  appeals  by  contrast  to  the 
Frenchman,  used  as  he  is  to  his  volatile,  excitable 
countrymen.  It  is  the  Tommy 's  stability,  his 
solidity,  that  makes  m'm  valuable,  especially  when 
mixed  with,  and  cooperating  with,  less-experienced 
troops.  He  steadies  the  line,  gives  steel-like 
tenacity  to  its  backbone,  and  grim,  unquenchable 
determination  to  its  morale.  But  to  see  your 
British  Tommy  cavorting  on  the  green  of  a  rest 
billet  or  about  a  railway  depot,  you  would  never 
suspect  him  of  those  sterling  qualities  for  which 
he  is  justly  famous. 

While  we  waited  for  the  train  bedlam  was  let 
loose.  French  people  were  burlesqued,  French 
trains  were  imitated,  everything  French  came  in 
for  its  share  of  ridicule,  and  the  Frenchmen  stood 
about  us  and  grinned  and  enjoyed  it  with  us. 
They  knew  better  than  did  we  that  despite  it  all 
we  loved  France,  and  would  love  her  still  more 
as  we  gave  more  to  her  great  cause. 

All  day  we  waited  for  that  train.  Thanks  to 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  hot  coffee  and  rolls  were  forth- 
coming, and,  be  it  known,  at  a  shamefully  small 
sum.  We  of  the  wise,  who  had  held  council  with 
veterans  of  similar  uncertain  trips,  filled  our 


FRANCE  31 

haversacks  with  chocolate,  hard-boiled  eggs,  and 
bread,  as  fortification  against  possible  vicissitudes 
of  wartime  travel,  and  we  did  well. 

Ultimately  the  dilatory  train,  such  as  it  was, 
pulled  in,  amid  jeers  and  cheers  from  the  as- 
sembled soldiery.  It  was  a  decidedly  dilapidated- 
looking  little  train,  made  up  of  ancient  third-class 
coaches,  loose-jointed  box-cars,  and  first-class 
coaches,  remodeled  to  suit  the  momentary  need. 

Like  a  Sunday-school  class  out  for  a  picnic  we 
piled  in.  .After  an  interminable  argument,  all 
were  seated,  and  the  officers  repaired  to  the  plat- 
form until  a  fitting  moment  of  departure  should  be 
granted  us  by  a  crabbed  looking  train-despatcher. 
No  sooner  were  the  officers  out  of  the  door  than  a 
full  third  of  the  car  left  by  the  windows  on  the  far 
side,  to  return,  triumphantly  bearing  luxuriously 
upholstered  seats  from  some  empty  and  neighbor- 
ing first-class  coaches. 

I  suspect  that  future  Baedekers  will  earnestly 
beseech  American  tourists  to  bring  their  own 
cushions  when  traveling  in  France,  for  I  am  quite 
sure  that  another  year  of  war  will  totally  denude 
French  first-class  coaches  of  such  luxury. 

Evening  drew  on,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that 
the  rickety  coaches  bore  up  under  the  strain 
within;  but,  perhaps  because  he  realized  the  im- 
pending danger  to  his  train,  the  despatcher  finally 


32  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

let  us  loose,  and  we  were  off  for  the  front,  just 
as  night  closed  down  upon  us. 

Immediately  the  blinds  must  be  drawn,  for 
Teuton  airmen  have  been  known  to  spot  such 
speeding  trains  and  to  bestow  a  bomb  or  two  upon 
them,  or  perhaps  a  dose  of  machine-gun  fire  cast 
in  at  open  windows.  But  we  were  not  in  total 
darkness ;  no  such  luck.  Above  us,  thrust  through 
holes  in  the  roof,  were  consumptive  oil-lamps  that 
served  rather  to  emphasize  the  gloom  than  to  dis- 
pel it.  Nevertheless,  these  aspiring,  but  inade- 
quate, lamps  were  at  premium,  and  one  enter- 
prising Tommy,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  crawled 
along  the  roof  of  the  rocking  train  and  pilfered 
the  light  from  our  compartment  that  he  might  the 
better  mend  a  slight  tear  in  his  equipment. 

But  gradually  the  practical  joking  ceased  for 
lack  of  further  food  to  feed  upon;  conversation 
dwindled,  and  one  by  one  we  dropped  off  into 
the  land  of  nod,  surrounded  by  the  fumes  of 
the  dilapidated  oil-lamps  and  by  a  few  wakeful 
souls  whose  voices  droned  away  tirelessly  through- 
out the  night,  telling  and  retelling  little  anecdotes 
of  home  life,  of  London,  and  speaking  of  their 
hopes  and  fears  for  the  future. 

The  night  wore  on  amid  the  rattle  and  groans 
of  the  train,  and  those  half-indistinguishable 
noises  of  the  dark  as  it  slipped  by  us.  But  with 


FRANCE  33 

the  first  faint  rays  of  morning  came  another 
sound  entirely  new  to  us;  and  yet  it  was  not  a 
sound  at  all  at  first,  but  a  feeling  of  omen,  a  sensa- 
tion of  vibrations  too  low  in  degree  to  shake  our 
tiny  ear-drums.  Gradually  it  became  more  and 
more  pronounced,  and  all  at  once,  as  if  a  door 
had  been  opened,  the  clean,  clear  bark  of  an  Eng- 
lish field-piece  burst  in  upon  us,  punctuated  by  the 
sharp  crack  and  crash  of  German  high-explosive 
shells. 

Instantly  the  train  was  a  hive  of  excitement. 
Bark,  bark,  boom  came  back  those  waves  of  sound. 
A  window  flew  up,  another  followed,  and  the  full 
and  incessant  roar  of  distant  battle  surged  in 
with  the  morning  sun. 

War! 

It  was  in  the  air,  and  yet  it  was  nowhere. 

Little  peasant  houses,  stage-like  through  the 
mist,  sent  up  wee  columns  of  smoke  from  their 
kindling  fires.  An  old  man,  dressed  like  a  page 
from  a  nursery-book,  puttered  in  his  garden,  but 
straightened  up  and  waved  to  us  as  we  fled  by. 
A  tiny  little  town  popped  past,  another,  and  then 
another,  and  the  inhabitants  toddled  to  their  gates 
and  waved  and  called  in  the  high  falsetto  voices 
of  old  age.  An  automobile,  with  the  chauffeur 
bent  low  over  the  wheel,  plunged  round  a  corner 
and  stopped  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and  explosive 


34  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

French  expletives ;  and  through  it  all  and  by  it  all 
we  raced,  while  the  tumult  of  battle  became  ever 
more  audible. 

After  an  unforgivably  long  time  the  train 
stopped,  hesitated,  and  crept  into  a  station.  On 
the  platform  were  a  group  of  kilted  officers,  repre- 
sentatives of  the  battalion  to  which  we  were  going. 
Stiff  and  sleepy  from  hours  of  travel,  we  lumbered 
out  of  the  coach,  amid  a  clutter  of  equipment,  and 
lined  up,  while  the  waiting  captain  briefly  and  hur- 
riedly welcomed  us  to  our  new  quarters. 

Then,  with  two  pipers  at  our  head,  we  swung 
eagerly  out  into  a  cross-road,  turned  to  the  left, 
and  stretched  out,  a  long,  party-colored  line,  down 
one  of  those  typical,  cobbled  French  roads,  lined 
with  its  long,  lean  poplar-trees. 

A  staff  automobile,  drab-colored  and  mud- 
spattered,  flashed  by,  oblivious  of  ruts  and  bumps 
and  all  other  traffic.  At  a  cross-road  a  seemingly 
endless  line  of  huge  khaki-colored  transports, 
laden  with  food  and  ammunition  for  the  front, 
rumbled  and  rattled  by.  All  day  long  this  line 
wound  on,  endless,  tireless,  a  monument  to  the 
tremendous  appetite  of  war  and  to  the  efficiency 
of  the  British  War  Office. 

By  the  wayside  quaint  little  thatched  peasant 
huts  crept  up  to  meet  us,  and  crawled  away  into 
the  dusty  distance.  Old  folks — always  old  folks 


FRANCE  35 

— toddled  about,  pursuing  the  humble  duty  of  their 
age — to  the  grim  accompaniment  of  distant,  but 
continuous,  gun-fire. 

At  last  we  trudged  into  the  town  of  Alougne, 
where  we  were  billeted.  I,  fortunately,  was 
quartered  with  an  old  French  woman,  a  wrinkled, 
bespectacled  old  grandmother  of  wondrous  sweet- 
ness. Her  "boys,"  she  called  us;  "Mother"  we 
called  her.  There  were  thirty-five  of  us  stationed 
with  her,  and,  as  I  came  up,  some  of  the  boys  who 
had  just  returned  from  the  firing-line  were  noisily 
enjoying  their  first  bath  in  five  weeks. 

We  of  the  new  draft  looked  on  wide-eyed,  wor- 
shiping the  naked  heroes  of  the  trench,  and  later 
some  of  a  more  practical  turn  of  mind  helped  our 
adopted  mother  with  her  little  household  chores, 
her  garden,  or  her  much-beloved  cow.  One  of  the 
city-bred  chaps  of  London  gallantly  offered  to 
milk  her  cow  for  her. 

"Non,"  said  Mother  Lecoq,  smiling  broadly  at 
his  blissful  ignorance ;  and  then,  in  exquisitely  bad 
English:  "One  tried  to  milk  her  las'  week;  he 
still  dans  I'hopital  Ma  vache  no  friend  of 
Tommy."  And  with  that  Mother  Lecoq  rolled 
off  with  her  milking-pail  to  do  the  task  herself. 
After  viewing  ma  vache,  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
the  tale. 

By    evening    the  old-timers    were    sufficiently 


36  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

washed  and  polished  to  satisfy  even  the  most 
fastidious,  and  we  gathered  around  our  coffee  and 
milk,  with  an  appetite  whetted  for  the  tales  that 
were  certain  to  come  forth  with  the  dusk  and  the 
reminiscent  glow  of  lighted  pipe  and  cigarette. 

After  considerable  coaxing,  Pete — we  never  did 
learn  his  last  name — grudgingly  agreed  to  tell  of 
his  latest  escapade  in  no-man  's-land. 

Pete  was  about  as  big  as  a  minute  and  as  bash- 
ful as  a  two-year-old  child.  To  extract  a  tale 
from  him  was  a  task ;  but,  once  in  it,  he  gave  him- 
self over  to  the  telling  with  a  gusto  of  a  profes- 
sional raconteur. 

It  seems  that  he  had  been  given  orders  to  take 
a  little  excursion  out  into  no-man's-land  in  order 
to  locate  a  German  machine-gun  emplacement 
which  had  been  proving  needlessly  annoying  to 
one  of  our  communication  trenches  for  two  or 
three  days. 

During  the  day  he  took  his  bearings  and  ar- 
ranged a  private  code  of  signals  with  the  listening- 
post  from  which  he  would  depart,  and  to  which 
he  planned  to  return  after  the  completion  of  his 
task. 

Promptly  at  the  appointed  hour  he  went  over 
the  top  and  stumbled  across  the  pitted  surface 
of  no-man's-land.  Everything  went  smoothly 
enough,  and  he  was  well  on  his  return  journey 


FRANCE  37 

with  the  desired  information  stowed  away  in  his 
pocket  when  a  flare  hissed  up  into  the  sky  and 
turned  no-man's-land  into  a  river  of  calcium  light. 

At  that  moment,  Pete  was  only  about  seventy 
yards  from  the  German  trenches  and  he  pros- 
trated himself  with  a  curse  and  a  prayer  for  luck. 
As  he  fell,  his  eye  caught  a  movement  to  his  left, 
and  he  dimly  saw  three  helmeted  figures,  like  him- 
self groveling  in  the  mud,  German  reconnoitering 
patrols  in  no-man's-land. 

Instantly  he  ripped  his  revolver  out,  hut  re- 
turned it  to  its  place  with  equal  despatch,  for 
in  such  circumstances  indiscriminate  shooting  is 
the  height  of  folly.  Any  shot  in  no-man's-land 
is  likely  to  bring  down  a  hail  of  bullets  from  both 
the  opposing  trenches — bullets  that  seek  out  friend 
and  foe  with  equal  favor  and  equally  disastrous 
results. 

There  is  an  unwritten  law,  founded  on  stern 
necessity,  that  governs  no-man's-land.  While  all 
patrols  in  this  forbidden  territory  carry  revolvers, 
they  are  seldom  used,  for  obvious  reasons.  When 
hostile  parties  meet,  if  they  be  of  equal  strength, 
they  pass  each  other  with  an  exchange  of  horrible 
threats,  but  little  else.  However,  if  one  patrol 
is  stronger  than  the  other,  it  may  endeavor  to  cap- 
ture the  weaker  party,  but  always  without  firing, 
if  possible.  Firing  a  shot  in  this  God-forsaken 


38  < 'LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

territory  is  like  lighting  a  match  in  a  powder- 
magazine.  It  is  about  as  certain  a  method  of  sui- 
cide as  has  yet  been  discovered. 

But  to  return  to  Pete.  The  German  patrol  was 
only  about  twenty  or  twenty-five  yards  from  Pete 
when  the  flare  flashed  up,  and  as  darkness  again 
settled  down  they  worked  so  close  to  him  that 
he  could  have  touched  them,  had  be  been  in  a 
careless  mood.  Discretion,  however,  was  Pete's 
middle  name,  and  he  let  the  Germans  lead  him  by 
thirty  or  forty  yards  until  they  halted  squarely 
between  the  outreaching  arms  of  two  English  lis- 
tening-posts. 

At  this  psychological  moment  Pete,  in  his  eager- 
ness, tripped  and  fell  full  on  his  face  with  a  re- 
sounding splash.  Instantly  the  three  Germans 
dropped,  and  Pete  resigned  himself  to  what  ap- 
peared inevitable  capture.  But  for  once  the  in- 
evitable failed  to  materialize,  and  the  Germans 
set  on  about  their  mission  and  moved  ahead  until 
they  were  within  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of 
the  English  trench,  and  still  exactly  between  the 
two  outstretched  listening-posts. 

Then  Pete  took  his  life  in  one  hand  and  his  re- 
volver in  the  other,  fired  into  the  night  in  the 
direction  of  the  Germans — and  hopped  into  a  lis- 
tening-post. The  report  was  not  dead  on  the  air 
before  no-man's-land  was  ablaze  with  flares,  and 


FEANCE  39 

the  three  Germans  were  neatly  trapped  squarely 
between  the  English  listening-posts. 

The  German  line,  scenting  trouble,  started  up  a 
fusillade,  effectively  preventing  their  own  com- 
rades from  returning  homeward  in  the  intervals 
between  the  flares  of  exaggerated  daylight. 

During  a  momentary  lull  in  the  firing,  while  the 
English  flares  were  withheld,  a  strong  reconnoit- 
ering  party  went  out  from  the  ends  of  our  listen- 
ing-posts, which  were  about  seventy-five  yards 
apart,  and  neatly  pocketed  the  Germans,  who 
were  found  cursing  lustily  and  worming  slowly 
Berlinward  on  their  stomachs. 

Pete's  experience  provoked  similar  tales,  some 
of  actual  experiences  and  some  of  a  lurid  nature 
that  would  make  Diamond  Dick  and  his  associates 
as  green  as  mint  with  envy. 

One  story  I  remember  particularly,  for  at  the 
time  it  struck  me  as  being  ample  proof  of  the 
necessity  for  rigid  discipline  in  trenchland. 

It  seems  that  an  officer,  accompanied  by  six 
men,  planned  a  bit  of  gum-shoe  work  in  no-man's- 
land.  Word  of  their  plans  was  passed  down  the 
line,  and  at  the  appointed  hour  they  set  out.  On 
returning,  they  had  approached  to  within  thirty- 
five  or  forty  yards  of  their  own  trench,  when  a 
lance-corporal  called  "Tiny,"  because  he  was  six 
feet  five  in  his  stocking-feet,  let  fire  at  them  with 


40  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

a  speed  and  energy  imparted  by  six  months'  in- 
cessant practice.  Tiny  had  forgotten  his  orders, 
and  did  not  recall  them  until  a  familiar  and  acid 
voice  boomed  out  from  before  his  rifle-sights : 

"You  damn  fool,  you!  Want  to  kill  your  own 
men!" 

Tiny  collapsed  on  the  firing-step  and  hurriedly 
computed  the  possible  extent  of  his  damage  and 
the  probable  severity  of  the  forthcoming  punish- 
ment. More  by  good  fortune  than  design,  how- 
ever, his  aim  had  been  as  bad  as  his  intentions  had 
been  good,  and  therefore  six  weeks  at  hard  fatigue 
was  the  punishment  for  his  temporary  lapse  of 
memory. 

It  was  amid  a  hurricane  of  similar  incidents  that 
the  evening  wore  on.  The  men  seldom  if  ever 
spoke  of  casualties,  confining  themselves  rather 
to  the  humorous  side  of  trench  life  or  to  tales  of 
rare  professional  skill  of  one  sort  or  another. 

To  our  avalanche  of  questions  they  gave  only 
patronizing,  tantalizing  answers. 

"Oh,  you'll  soon  find  out,  my  boy,"  was  the 
usual  response  to  some  query  that  had  been  quiv- 
ering on  our  tongue  for  hours. 

"How  does  it  feel  to  be  under  fire?  Well,  were 
you  ever  in  a  bath-tub  of  hot  water  when — well, 
you  just  wait  and  see.  You  '11  find  it  's  almost  ex- 
actly as  I  have  been  telling  you.  'T  would  be  a 


FRANCE  41 

crime  to  spoil  the  feeling  for  you  by  describing 
it  too  minutely  beforehand." 

But  out  of  their  idle  conversation  I  gathered 
that  of  all  war's  manifold  horrors  the  most 
dreaded  is  the  waiting  under  fire — waiting  to  go 
over,  to  do  anything  that  will  expend  your  pent-up 
energies  and  nervous  force,  anything  that  will  stop 
your  thinking,  anything  that  will  stop  your  imagi- 
nation from  running  riot  and  making  a  coward 
of  you  despite  yourself.  Within  a  fortnight  I 
sounded  a  loud  "Amen"  to  these  complaints. 

During  the  course  of  the  evening  they  repeatedly 
lamented  the  death  of  a  certain  Tommy  Thomp- 
son, their  machine-gun  sergeant.  Tommy,  it 
seems,  had  been  busily  engaged  in  scattering  his 
steel-jacketed  gifts  among  the  Germans  with 
marked  and  invariable  success.  But  success 
brings  with  it  its  own  penalties,  and  early  one 
morning,  prior  to  their  usual  eleven  o'clock  Hymn 
of  Hate,  the  Germans  started  throwing  over  some 
heavy  stuff  as  a  token  of  unusual  spleen.  These 
shells  were  surprisingly  well  timed,  and  appeared 
to  be  focusing  perilously  near  to  Tommy's 
machine-gun  emplacement.  A  little  to  the  left 
they  dropped,  and  then  a  little  to  the  right;  then 
one  to  the  rear  by  five  yards,  and  then  one  a  bit 
to  the  front,  but  always  creeping  closer,  like  the 
flow  of  a  horrible  tide. 


42  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Here  the  story-teller  paused,  and  spat  reflec- 
tively at  the  barn-door  before  continuing.  The 
others  stared  hard  into  the  fire. 

"I  was  out  at  a  listening-post,"  resumed  the 
speaker,  "when  a  shell  went  over  my  head  with  a 
noise  like  the  "Flying  Scotchman"  on  its  run  from 
London  to  Glasgow.  I  felt  in  my  bones  that  she 
was  the  one  that  was  going  to  do  the  work;  and 
she  did.  I  looked  back,  and  saw  the  whole  em- 
placement and  most  of  the  neighboring  scenery 
thereabout  heave  up  into  the  air  in  a  cloud  of 
nasty,  brownish  smoke.  When  the  wind  caught  it 
away,  there  wasn't  anything  left  of  the  place, 
and  where  old  Tommy  had  been  dozing  was  just 
a  bit  deeper  than  the  rest. 

* '  I  went  back  when  my  time  was  up,  and  met  one 
of  the  machine-gun  crew  coming  back  with 
Tommy's  identification  disk  in  his  pocket  and  the 
remnants  of  the  machine-gun  on  his  shoulder. 

"  'That,'  said  he,  '  is  the  sixth  one  they  have 
clicked  for  us  in  the  last  week,  and  I  'm  going  back 
to  get  another.'  " 

After  this  recital  there  was  a  prolonged  silence. 
Tommy  Thompson  had  been  extremely  popular 
among  his  mates,  and  one  by  one  they  withdrew 
into  the  cow  stable,  which  was  our  boudoir  for 
the  nonce. 

This  particular  cow  stable,  I  soon  learned,  was 


FRANCE  43 

on  a  par  with  its  thousand  fellows  of  northern 
France. 

It  was  alive  with  rats  of  an  embarrassingly 
friendly  disposition.  That  was  my  first  experi- 
ence with  rats  on  such  terms  of  intimacy.  To 
this  day  a  rat  running  across  my  face  will  wake 
me,  but  that  night  a  rat  scampering  across  my 
wrist  sufficed  to  wake  the  echoes  of  the  entire 
neighborhood.  I  was  sternly  cautioned  to  be 
scrupulously  silent,  else  I  might  wake  not  only 
the  echoes,  but  the  remainder  of  the  rats.  This 
sage  advice  had  the  desired  effect  until  two  of 
the  little  creatures  engaged  in  a  friendly  sparring 
match,  within  three  feet  of  my  head.  I  hastily 
seized  my  rifle,  and  managed  to  place  its  butt 
neatly  upon  the  upturned  face  of  a  chap  three  rows 
farther  down  the  line.  Forthwith  I  was  pro- 
nounced worse  than  the  Boche  himself,  and  was 
deposited  outside  of  the  shed  for  the  balance  of 
the  night,  that  my  comrades  might  enjoy  the 
silence  and  the  rats  undisturbed. 

But  even  in  the  open  I  was  not  alone.  At  three 
o  'clock  I  woke  with  a  feeling  that  was  a  cross  be- 
tween an  itch  and  a  bite.  Shortly,  however,  the 
itch  disappeared  completely,  and  gave  way  to  a 
series  of  unmistakable  and  undeniable  bites.  The 
11  crawlers"  were  among  us.  Crawlers,  be  it 
known,  is  a  popular  and  esthetic  cognomen  for  lice, 


44  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

plain  body-lice.  They  are  particularly  friendly 
with  the  Scottish,  owing  to  the  comfortable  quar- 
ters afforded  by  the  Scottish  pleated  kilt. 

By  morning  we  of  the  new  draft  were  thor- 
oughly aroused  to  their  presence,  and  an  aston- 
ishing and  horrible  array  of  germicides  appeared 
in  protest.  Most  of  us  had  come  armed  to  the 
teeth  for  these  much  advertised  creatures,  and  we 
longed  to  try  conclusions  with  them. 

The  conclusions,  however,  were  all  in  favor 
of  Monsieur  the  Crawler.  He  is  invincible. 
Powders  guaranteed  to  kill  anything  on  four  feet 
or  centipedes,  are  as  nothing  to  his  Satanic 
Majesty.  A  patent  grease  with  which  you  are 
supposed  to  butter  your  body  appears  to  be  a 
haven  of  refuge  and  a  mine  of  nourishment  for 
him. 

After  experimenting  for  a  few  hours  with  all 
our  powders,  greases,  ointments,  and  a  mixture  of 
all  three,  we  retreated  before  the  inevitable,  and 
joined  that  day's  crawler  party  about  a  bonfire, 
in  which  our  contributions  were  deposited  as  fast 
as  we  could  locate  them  and  convince  them  of  our 
earnestness. 

And  over  us  always  floated  the  tireless  boom 
and  crackle  of  the  battle.  We  wanted  to  be  in  it. 
The  older  men,  with  their  good-natured  bantering, 
had  made  us  feel  woefully  out  of  it.  We  longed 


FRANCE  45 

to  duplicate  their  experiences,  to  be  able  to  speak 
casually  of  bombs  and  shell-fire,  as  if  we  lived  and 
thrived  upon  the  stuff.  There  was  no  feeling  of 
fear  or  dread ;  but  the  nervous  strain  of  waiting, 
coupled  with  the  monotonous  work  about  the  billet, 
had  its  usual  effect,  and  soon,  for  lack  of  other 
amusement,  Tommy,  new  and  old  alike,  fell  back 
upon  his  genteel  and  ever-handy  pastime  of  grous- 
ing. 

This  business  of  grousing  is  Tommy's  foremost 
and  dearest  accomplishment.  He  didn't  invent 
it,  but  he  has  perfected  it  to  an  unbelievable  de- 
gree. If  Tommy  can 't  grouse  and  grumble  about 
the  weather  or  the  fit  of  his  socks,  he  will  pick  upon 
his  sergeant.  If  the  sergeant,  by  some  stroke  of 
Deity,  is  flawless,  the  commissary  department  will 
be  aired  to  the  breezes.  If  the  commissary  de- 
partment has  furnished  agreeable  grub  of  late, 
't  will  be  the  post-office  which  has  failed  in  its  duty. 
Always  your  Tommy  will  find  something  seriously 
wrong  if  he  really  sets  out  to  do  so.  But  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all  is  nothing  but  a  big  heart  and 
a  desire  for  a  little  encouragement  and  sympathy; 
which,  if  not  satisfied  immediately,  begets  the  de- 
sire to  have  revenge  on  the  nearest  object.  Grous- 
ing is  nothing  but  a  poor  substitute  for  sympathy, 
and  it  is  as  harmless  and  as  meaningless  as  a 
lassie's  smile. 


46  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

For  four  days  we  rested  and  ranted  in  our  billet 
behind  the  firing-line,  while  the  grumbling  of 
Tommy  and  the  growling  of  the  battle-front  be- 
came steadily  more  noticeable.  Which  of  the 
two  rumblings  brought  the  welcome  order  to  be 
off,  I  do  not  know ;  I  only  know  that  it  came,  and 
early  on  the  fourth  day  of  our  stay  we  formed  up 
and  prepared  to  leave. 

As  I  ran  out  of  the  gate  to  join  my  company, 
our  old  hostess  called  to  me,  and,  flushing  like  a 
school-girl,  breathlessly  handed  me  a  wee  bundle. 

' 'Void,  mon  fits,"  she  said,  "you  keep  him,  an' 
do  not  forget  moi  et  ma  vache." 

With  that  she  turned  back,  waved  me  a  pretty 
good-by,  and  thew  a  kiss  to  all  of  us  as  gaily  as  a 
maid  of  one  fourth  her  age. 

I  opened  her  humble  packet,  and  a  worn  and 
battered  rosary  fell  out  into  my  palm.  Touched 
by  the  sentiment,  I  poured  it  into  my  breast  pocket, 
and  to  this  day  I  carry  it,  half  as  a  talisman  of 
good  fortune,  and  half  as  a  reminder  of  old 
Madame  Lecoq  and  her  indomitable  vache.  She 
calls  up  a  vision  of  all  France  personified,  that 
gay  old  soul  who  had  given  her  three  sons,  yet, 
for  all  her  sorrows,  kept  a  brave  spirit. 

As  we  swung  away  through  the  village,  bent  old 
figures  waved  to  us,  some  gaily,  some  gravely, 
from  each  little  doorway  and  garden,  and  a  horde 


FRANCE  47 

of  chattering  children  followed  us,  just  as  I  used 
to  follow  a  traveling- show,  wide-eyed  and  wonder- 
ing. Far  out  to  the  edge  of  the  town  they  trotted 
beside  us,  and  would  have  continued  on  indefi- 
nitely, I  firmly  believe,  had  not  we  ourselves 
ordered  them  back. 

And  how  we  hated  to  see  those  kiddies  go! 
French  they  were,  foreign  to  us  as  foreign  could 
be,  but  kiddies  still,  and  reminders  of  home.  To 
send  them  back  was  to  snap  the  last  tie  that  must 
ever  link  man  to  home  and  fireside. 

As  the  tail  of  their  chattering  procession  dis- 
appeared around  a  bend,  we  settled  down  to  the 
wearisome  grind  of  march.  Dust  welled  up  all 
about  us.  It  was  hot,  desperately  hot  for  May, 
and  our  tongues  soon  became  thick  and  leather- 
like.  Some  of  the  boys  sucked  incessantly  on 
malted  milk  tablets,  and  what  a  godsend  they 
were.  Aside  from  their  slight  nourishment,  they 
helped  wonderfully  in  alleviating  thirst,  the 
grim  specter  of  which  dogged  us  all  day  long. 

By  noon  we  had  covered  about  half  our  journey 
to  Eichbourg  St.  Vaast,  but  only  a  fifteen-minute 
halt  was  allowed  before  we  were  again  up  and 
away,  gray,  dust-covered  ghosts  plodding  through 
a  mist  of  chalky  atmosphere.  Toward  evening 
a  sky-line  rose  up  to  meet  us.  It  was  the  high- 
water  mark  of  the  German  advance  in  that  sector. 


48  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

What  the  name  of  that  village  was  I  do  not 
know.  It  was  lost  with  the  village  itself,  perhaps. 
Not  a  house  was  left ;  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
to  the  left  and  to  the  right  was  only  ruin  and 
then  more  ruin.  A  chimney,  gaunt  and  unreal  in 
the  evening  light,  jutted  up  into  the  sky;  a  solid 
wall,  perhaps,  or  a  roof,  but  never  the  two  to- 
gether. Through  some  broken  wall  or  open  door- 
way one  could  still  see  the  little  homey  scenes, 
a  bed,  a  chair  or  two  beside  a  shattered  hearth, 
a  table  with  the  dishes  still  resting  on  it.  In  the 
center  of  the  village  stood  what  was  once  a  church, 
now  a  rubbish-pile  of  blasted  brick  and  multi- 
colored plaster.  In  the  ditch  beside  the  road  were 
occasional  dead  horses,  loathsome  objects.  A  lean 
dog  rested  across  the  shattered  threshold  of  one 
house,  and  near  by,  in  eternal  truce,  were  the  bat- 
tered remains  of  his  ancient  enemy,  the  family 
tabby ;  but  the  family  were  gone,  unless  the  little 
cross  in  the  doorway  and  the  mound  of  new  earth 
perchance  marked  the  last  resting-place  of  the 
owner. 

Such  sights  were  new  to  us,  and  they  had  their 
full  effect.  Laughter  and  talking  died,  and  curses, 
mumbled  through  clenched  teeth,  took  their  place. 
The  spirit  of  France  sifted  down  upon  us  and 
took  up  its  abode  in  our  hearts. 

From  soldiers  in  name,  this  village,  a  habita- 


FRANCE  49 

tion  fit  only  for  crows  and  scurrying  rats,  turned 
us  into  soldiers  in  fact;  and  as  we  stumbled 
wearily  on,  grumbling  was  gone,  and  grim,  silent 
determination  had  taken  its  place — determination 
to  avenge  those  roadside  crosses,  those  homes,  and, 
yes,  that  lifeless  dog  and  cat,  dumb,  but  eloquent 
symbols  of  homes  violated,  firesides  wantonly 
wrecked,  women  and  children  murdered  or  car- 
ried away  to  a  bondage  more  horrible  by  far  than 
death  itself. 

Our  billet  that  night  was  a  war-racked  house. 
The  windows  were  gone,  the  door  swung  drunk- 
enly  on  a  broken  hinge,  the  garden  was  a  hole 
half  filled  with  brackish  water,  the  walls  were 
staggering  uncertainly,  and  the  little  orchard  was 
a  mass  of  charred  and  jagged  stumps.  It  had 
been  a  home  once,  and  a  home  it  was  again  to  a 
score  of  dusty,  kilted  Tommies;  for  Tommy's 
home  is  where  he  hangs  his  hat. 

But  scant  time  we  had  to  enjoy  its  rude  com- 
forts, for  ten  of  us  were  ordered  out  to  the  firing- 
line.  Our  excitement  was  intense;  but  it  was 
dampened  when,  instead  of  guns,  we  were  handed 
shovels,  and,  instead  of  cartridges,  pickaxes. 
War,  you  know,  is  not  all  shooting;  ninety  per 
cent,  of  it  is  hard,  laborious  work. 

After  being  cautioned  to  make  no  noise  and 
to  beware  of  all  light,  we  stole  forward  through 


50  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

the  night  to  a  point  about  four  hundred  yards  be- 
hind the  firing-line,  where  a  communication  trench 
required  lengthening  and  deepening.  Here  for 
the  first  time  I  saw  the  scene  for  which  I  had  been 
in  training  these  six  months  past. 

Spread  out  before  me  like  a  panorama,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  were  the  trenches,  out- 
lined by  hundreds  of  twinkling,  flashing  star-shells, 
some  red,  some  green,  others  yellow  or  white. 
Blot  out  the  sounds  and  the  unmistakable  odor, 
and  it  might  have  been  a  fireworks  display  at  some 
summer  amusement-park.  But  the  sounds !  Who 
can  describe  the  sounds  of  no-man's-land  and  its 
environs  at  night?  There  is  the  nasty  hollow  rat- 
a-tat-tat  of  the  machine-gun,  now  far  off  and  dull, 
now  sharp  and  staccato,  like  a  snare-drum,  as  its 
hungry  mouth  sweeps  in  your  direction.  Then 
comes  a  series  of  echoes,  hollow,  sinister  echoes, 
that  you  feel  as  much  as  hear.  A  spent  bullet 
whistles  past  you,  and  dies  away  in  the  distance ; 
a  big  gun  booms  down  from  afar;  and  over  it  all 
rises  the  intangible  sound  of  men  moving,  living 
things  living,  or  transports  groaning  up,  and  a 
medley  of  nameless  noises  that  arise  from  no- 
where, yet  are  everywhere  in  no-man's-land.  And 
all  about  you  is  the  smell  of  dank  water,  of  black- 
ness that  is  all  the  blacker  for  the  distant  star- 
shells,  of  dead  and  living  things,  all  bound  together 


FEANCE  51 

into  an  odor  that  is  the  property  of  no  place  but 
no-man's-land. 

As  we  began  to  dig,  the  heavens  opened  up,  and 
in  five  minutes  we  were  ankle-deep  in  mud  and 
blaspheming  our  way  through  the  stickiest  soil 
that  ever  cursed  mankind.  It  took  superhuman 
effort  to  get  it  on  your  shovel  and  equally  super- 
human effort  to  get  it  off.  The  Creator  made  that 
soil  to  stay  put.  As  we  struggled  with  our  shovels 
and  picks,  a  merry  company  of  rifle-bullets,  di- 
rected at  no  place  in  particular,  kept  up  a  medley 
of  falsetto  whines  above  our  heads.  Off  to  our  left 
had  been  a  wood, — I  use  the  past  tense  advisedly 
— for  now  there  remained  only  a  collection  of 
stumps  and  prostrate  branches  outlined  black  and 
phantom-like  against  the  sky.  To  our  right  was 
an  ancient  cabbage-field  long  since  gone  to  the 
great  beyond.  Hour  on  hour  we  struggled  on 
through  that  gum-like  soil,  until  my  knees  wobbled 
and  my  breath  came  hard;  but  I,  like  the  others, 
labored  on. 

There  is  something  about  the  firing-line  that 
tightens  your  sinews  and  lends  a  triple  toughness 
to  your  muscles.  I  have  seen  men  fight  for  days, 
uncomplaining  and  unfatigued;  I  have  seen  them 
fight  for  days  and  labor  for  nights  without  thought 
of  rest.  I  have  seen  men  go  through  the  trials  of 
hell,  and  do  it  smilingly  and  easily,  apparently 


52  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

blessed  with  an  unfailing  fountain  of  strength; 
and  then  I  have  seen  these  same  tireless  workers 
go  back  to  the  billet  when  their  labors  are  at  an 
end,  and  collapse  in  a  heap,  spent  utterly. 

There  is  a  species  of  auto-intoxication  that  per- 
vades trenchdom.  Men  are  dying  all  about  you, 
and  in  the  face  of  death,  life's  uttermost  efforts 
seem  puny  and  small.  Of  course  you  never  really 
reason  it  out  that  way,  at  least  I  know  I  never 
did;  but  the  fact  that  others  are  sticking  it  out, 
that  others  are  holding  and  giving  their  all,  must 
have  an  unconscious  reaction  that  draws  upon  un- 
suspected wells  of  nervous  and  physical  strength. 

Perhaps  no  such  strength  buoyed  us  up  that 
night.  It  was  probably  the  excitement  and  the 
novelty  of  it  all,  for  it  is  a  novelty  to  hear  bullets 
whining  past  when  the  swiftest  messenger  of  death 
with  which  you  have  had  experience  is  a  London 
taxicab ;  it  is  a  novelty  to  picture  the  Huns  crouch- 
ing over  there,  a  few  hundred  yards  away  from 
you ;  it  is  a  novelty  that  I  wish  every  man  might 
experience,  and  stop  with  the  experiencing. 

Just  as  the  first  hint  of  morning  specked  the 
sky  we  stumbled  back  to  our  billet,  tired  as  no 
human  was  ever  tired  before.  Not  a  man  spoke ; 
even  the  firing-line  was  passably  quiet.  You 
could  hear  the  German  transports  pounding 
along  faintly  over  the  cobbled  roads,  and  I  re- 


FRANCE  53 

member  vaguely  wondering  why  we  did  n't  drop  a 
shell  in  their  direction.  A  ''greenhorn"  is  likely 
to  be  remarkably  generous  with  ammunition. 

No  hot  meal  awaited  us,  just  a  scant  pile  of  straw 
that  looked  better  and  felt  softer  than  the  mat- 
tress in  the  guest-room  at  home.  Four  hours 
flashed  away,  and  the  morning  broke  with  the  com- 
fortable sound  of  a  British  field-piece  barking 
away  angrily,  like  a  little  dog  at  a  treed  cat.  I 
tested  myself  experimentally  for  symptoms  of  a 
cold,  but  found  not  the  slightest  trace. 

It  is  an  interesting  thing  that  despite  the  hor- 
rible and  all  pervading  dampness  of  the  firing- 
line  there  is  little  sickness.  In  the  midst  of  all  the 
hardships  and  privations  there  seems  to  be  no 
room  for  the  petty  annoyances  of  civilian  life. 
It  is  seldom  that  a  man  visits  a  medical  officer. 
Blistered  feet  are  the  soldier's  foremost  ailment, 
yet  many  a  man  will  go  for  days  with  his  feet 
blood-soaked  from  blisters  rather  than  seek  a 
medical  officer  for  remedies.  It  is  not  bravado; 
in  the  trenches  you  don't  place  much  importance 
on  such  things.  After  all,  life  is  a  matter  of  com- 
parisons. You  are  rich  in  my  estimation  be- 
cause I  am  poorer  than  you,  and  I  am  comfortable 
despite  blistered  feet,  because  you  have  lost  an 
arm  or  perhaps  a  leg.  So  it  goes.  In  the  midst 
of  death  there  is  no  room  for  colds  or  fevers. 


54  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

There  are  so  many  more  expeditious  methods  of 
making  your  exit  from  this  world  that  the  old- 
fashioned  maladies  have  quite  lost  caste  on  the 
firing-line. 

Our  next  billet  was  another  empty  shell  of  a 
house,  afloat  on  a  sea  of  mud.  All  the  land  there- 
about had  seen  much  of  shell-fire,  and  presented 
the  general  appearance  of  a  huge  black  lake  that 
had  been  beaten  into  a  raging  fury  and  then  frozen 
as  it  ran.  Huge  holes,  great  billows  of  earth,  with 
brambles  and  bricks  floating  in  weird,  unnatural 
positions  upon  its  surface. 

For  several  days  we  worked  at  odd,  meaning- 
less jobs  about  the  place,  gathering  a  vast  fund  of 
information  and  experience.  I  presume  that  this 
is  what  we  were  supposed  to  do,  to  become  accli- 
mated to  the  sights  and  sounds,  to  familiarize  our- 
selves with  the  modus  operandi  of  the  front-line. 
We  rapidly  became  rather  set  in  our  ways.  Like 
old  bachelors,  we  acquired  little  idiosyncrasies. 
Experiences  that  would  have  filled  a  volume  a 
month  before  were  now  ignored  and  forgotten; 
and  why  not?  Here  we  were,  hovering  about  the 
brink  of  the  Hun-made  hell.  We  never  expected 
to  return  to  familiar  sights  and  sounds  except  on 
crutches  or  on  a  stretcher;  so  why  should  we  be- 
come ruffled  at  the  sound  of  an  onrushing  shell? 


FEANCE  55 

Fatalism?  Oh,  perhaps,  but  not  bravado;  just  a 
stoical  complacency  that  takes  possession  of  you 
after  the  first  five  or  six  shells  have  failed  to  make 
you  their  mark. 

I  don't  mean  to  say  that  shell-fire  is  welcome. 
No  man  who  speaks  the  truth  can  aver  that  he  has 
any  hankering  after  the  heavy  stuff.  He  may 
become  accustomed  to  rifle-fire,  to  the  red-hot  hell 
of  machine-gun  fire,  but  shell-fire  has  a  horror 
all  its  own.  You  never  really  get  accustomed  to 
it,  and  it  is  for  that  reason  that  many  men  are 
captured  after  a  heavy  shelling.  They  are  un- 
hurt, but  the  horror  of  continued  shelling  saps 
their  will  to  fight,  and  leaves  them  dumb  and  dazed 
and  void  of  all  will  to  think  or  do. 

It  was  in  this  atmosphere  of  stray  shells  and 
rifle-fire  that  we  acquired  our  trench  legs.  Then 
came  the  order  to  move  up  another  notch.  This 
proved  to  be  six  hundred  yards  from  the  front 
trenches,  and  for  the  next  three  days  we  had  box- 
seats  for  the  grand  performance.  From  the  real 
we  approached  what  was  once  the  unreal,  and  now 
the  unreal  proved  far  more  real  and  much  more 
full  of  life  than  the  most  important  event  of  our 
little  yesterdays. 

My  first  night  at  the  new  billet  I  was  detailed 
off  to  ration  fatigue,  which  in  plain  English  is 


56  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

the  job  of  getting  the  company's  rations  from  the 
cook.  Our  cooks  were  stationed  at  a  spot  known 
as  " Windy  Corners,"  so  named  because  of  the 
Teuton's  earnest  endeavors  to  wipe  it  out  of  ex- 
istence. 

The  Teuton,  let  me  say,  is  a  wise  bird,  and  he 
has  an  uncanny  way  of  knowing  your  movements 
before  you  yourself  become  aware  of  them. 
French  civilian  traitors  are  usually  to  blame.  In 
fact,  nothing  so  endeared  Sir  Douglas  Haig 
to  the  men  as  his  order  relegating  non-com- 
batants to  the  rear  by  fifteen  miles.  After  this 
order  went  into  effect  the  Hun's  remarkable  guess- 
work fell  off  markedly.  Prior  to  that  time  I  had 
seen  instance  after  instance  where  traitorous 
guidance  was  evident. 

One  peculiarly  clever  case  comes  to  my  mind. 
Near  us,  at  one  time,  on  the  firing-line,  was  a 
house.  For  days  we  called  it  the  "charmed  cha- 
teau" because  it  alone  of  all  its  neighbors  re- 
mained standing.  In  our  early  innocence  we  mar- 
veled at  it,  and  talked  vacantly  of  supernatural 
causes,  until  an  officer  remarked  a  rather  striking 
coincidence.  When  any  considerable  company  of 
our  men  went  forward  through  one  or  more  com- 
munication trenches,  the  chimney  of  the  "charmed 
chateau"  would  emit  a  sudden  series  of  smoke- 
puffs,  and  instanter  the  German  shells  would  be- 


FEANCE  57 

gin  to  flit  about  with  remarkable  exactness.  In 
the  telling  it  seems  simple  enough,  and  yet  no  one 
had  noticed  this  coincidence  before. 

There  was  an  elderly  woman  living  in  the  place, 
and  I  can  testify  that  she  was  a  marvelous  cook. 
Her  home,  partly  by  reason  of  her  kindness  and 
her  cooking,  aided,  perhaps,  by  her  remarkable 
immunity  from  shell-fire,  soon  became  a  gather- 
ing-place for  our  officers.  She  was  always  most 
solicitous  about  our  health,  and  showed  an  ap- 
parently justifiable  interest  in  our  movements. 
She  also  had  a  dog.  Even  the  dog  was  friendly, 
and,  like  the  woman,  was  soon  adopted  as  a  part 
of  our  trench  family.  But  for  the  canniness  of 
one  of  our  superior  officers  she  and  her  dog  might 
still  be  dishing  out  soup  with  one  hand  and  shrap- 
nel with  the  other. 

When  suspicion  was  at  last  centered  upon  her, 
the  first  move  was  to  watch  the  house  and  the  dog. 
Two  days  later  the  dog  appeared  innocently  me- 
andering homeward  from  the  direction  of  the 
trenches.  Three  Tommies  waylaid  the  unaccount- 
ably shy  Fido  and  abstracted  a  neat  bundle  of 
German  memoranda  from  his  tubular  collar.  Our 
dear  French  friend  had  kept  the  Hun  batteries 
well  supplied  with  full  data,  and  the  mystery  of 
their  remarkably  well-ordered  fire  disappeared 
forthwith. 


58  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Two  hours  after  her  arrest  her  home  was  vis- 
ited by  a  German  high-explosive  shell.  Who  told 
them  of  her  arrest?  Ask  the  Huns.  They  have  a 
system  all  their  own. 

But  to  return  to  " Windy  Corners"  and  the 
cookers.  The  roadway  ran  parallel  with  the 
trenches  and  within  tempting  rifle-range;  but  it 
was  nearly  eight  o'clock  and  dark,  so  that  Bill 
Nichols  and  I  scampered  along  with  little  fear  of 
detection.  We  reached  the  cookers,  we  filled  our 
sacks,  and  we  started  back,  quite  overflowing  with 
the  joy  of  living  and  a  great  contempt  for  our 
enemies  across  the  ditch. 

There  was  a  fool  with  us.  I  was  that  fool.  I 
started  whistling  "Tipperary."  About  the  first 
eight  notes  had  been  confided  to  the  night  air  when 
a  bullet  hit  the  road  three  feet  in  front  of  me,  and 
pi-i-i — nged  away  in  the  dark.  I  needed  no  sec- 
ond invitation,  but  dropped  "Tipperary,"  the  bis- 
cuits, and  everything  that  would  impede  my  rapid 
progress,  in  a  heap  on  the  road,  and  made  a  run 
for  it. 

The  billet  was  all  there  to  meet  me,  including 
the  sergeant. 

"Where  are  the  rations,  Pink?"  said  he. 

"Down  the  road,  sir,"  I  replied  between  puffs. 

"What  the  hell?  Down  the  road?"  he  coun- 
tered. 


FRANCE  59 

I  explained  that  machine-gun  fire  had  no  great 
allurements  for  me,  and  that  therefore  I  had  de- 
parted rather  hastily  without  the  rations.  But 
my  sad  tale  produced  no  sympathy,  only  an  order 
to  go  back  and  get  the  grub. 

My  progress  on  the  return  trip  was  via  a  ditch, 
which  put  twelve  feet  of  solid  roadway  between 
me  and  the  Huns'  rifle  practice.  Half-way  back 
I  met  Nichols,  progressing  stealthily  like  a  child 
with  a  stolen  cooky.  He,  too,  had  discovered  the 
ditch  and  was  making  good  use  of  it. 

My  return  with  the  biscuits  was  the  reverse  of 
what  I  had  pictured.  I  had  visions  of  being  wel- 
comed as  a  hero  of  some  note,  perhaps  of  being 
mentioned  for  bravery  under  fire ;  but  I  was  acidly 
informed  that  ten  days'  extra  fatigue  was  my  pun- 
ishment for  not  obeying  orders.  I  had  been  told 
to  bring  back  the  rations,  and  I  had  returned  with- 
out them. 

For  the  benefit  of  the  reader  I  will  pass  over  the 
next  ten  days,  with  their  incessant  round  of  tire- 
some duties  of  a  nature  usually  delegated  to  those 
in  disgrace  in  the  army. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   BATTLE   FOB   LILLE 

EAELY  in  May,  1915,  I  was  enjoying  a  few 
hours  off  duty  when  I  met  an  artillery  officer 
who  was  stringing  wires  from  the  front-line  ob- 
servation positions  to  the  batteries  at  the  rear. 

"Something  big  coming  off?"  said  I. 

"Just  that,  my  son,"  was  the  non-committal 
reply. 

This  opening  seemed  interesting,  if  difficult,  and 
I  struck  up  a  precarious  conversation  with  the 
taciturn  old  fellow.  Two  hours  of  hard  work  on 
my  part  netted  the  information  that  the  long- 
delayed  battle  for  Lille  was  in  the  making. 

For  days  past  our  artillery  preparations  had 
been  active  in  the  extreme.  The  advance,  I  gath- 
ered, was  to  be  over  a  line  about  fifteen  hundred 
yards  wide,  and  from  one  thousand  to  twelve  hun- 
dred artillery  pieces  were  to  be  concentrated  upon 
that  area.  According  to  my  oracle,  the  advance 
would  be  simplicity  itself,  merely  a  matter  of  a 
few  hours  *  artillery  fire,  and  then  through  the  gap 
and  on  to  Lille. 

60 


THE  BATTLE  FOE  LILLE  61 

With  these  hearty  assurances  bubbling  in  my 
heart,  I  ran  back  to  the  billet  and  spread  the  glad 
news  among  the  boys.  Immediately  the  optimists 
and  the  pessimists  took  sides,  and  the  battle  be- 
fore Lille  was  fought  out  according  to  their  re- 
spective views.  The  old-timers  were  particularly 
pessimistic,  and  for  good  reason.  They  had  been 
through  the  Marne,  when  the  Allied  artillery  was 
noticeable  principally  for  its  absence,  and  hence 
word  of  dominance  in  artillery-fire  was  consid- 
ered too  good  to  be  worth  the  hearing. 

At  best,  they  maintained,  a  battle  is  merely  a 
matter  of  luck,  and  no  human  brain  can  forecast 
the  outcome  with  any  degree  of  accuracy,  no  mat- 
ter how  elaborate  the  preparations  may  be.  Fur- 
thermore, we  had  been  given  to  understand  that 
the  Germans  far  outnumbered  us,  and  this  fact, 
coupled  with  the  skepticism  concerning  our  artil- 
lery, held  sway  until  the  night  of  May  8,  when 
word  came  through  that  on  the  morrow,  Sunday, 
we  would  make  the  long-heralded  advance  upon 
Lille. 

With  the  formal  news  of  the  impending  battle, 
all  skepticism  vanished.  In  its  place  appeared 
only  optimism  and  a  great  eagerness  for  the  on- 
slaught. 

Saturday  evening,  the  evening  before  the  battle, 
we  gathered  in  a  shell-proof  dugout,  where  we 


62  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

held  high  carnival  around  a  bowl  of  punch.  Each 
lad  told  his  favorite  story  or  sang  his  favorite 
song.  The  health  of  the  British  Army  and  Navy 
was  drunk  a  score  of  times.  The  battle  of  the 
coming  day  was  fought  and  won  unquestionably. 
The  spinal  cord  of  the  beast  was  broken.  We 
marched  on  and  on  and  on  into  Berlin.  Glowing 
faces  grew  gay  under  the  mellow,  congenial  influ- 
ence of  this  "Last  Supper,'*  as  we  flippantly 
called  it. 

Evening  dusk  came,  we  fell  into  line,  and  set  off 
on  the  road  which  led  to  "Windy  Corners"  and  to 
Lille. 

At  the  usual  place  the  German  machine-guns 
picked  us  up,  and  for  safety's  sake  we  took  to  the 
ditch  for  protection.  Across  field  after  field,  pit- 
ted like  the  face  of  the  moon,  we  stumbled,  often 
up  to  our  knees  in  icy,  sticky  mud ;  but  about  mid- 
night we  reached  a  little  wood  two  miles  behind 
the  line,  and  here  we  bivouacked  for  the  night. 

And  here  let  me  offer  my  very  sincere  respects 
to  the  commander  of  our  platoon,  Mr.  Findley. 
He  had  risen  from  the  ranks  and  had  been  deco- 
rated with  the  D.C.M.;  and  a  more  conscientious 
officer  I  have  never  known.  No  matter  what  his 
own  problems  or  discomforts,  he  never  forgot 
"his  boys."  Around,  among  us  he  circulated, 
now,  urging  us  to  be  of  good  cheer,  telling  of  the 


THE  BATTLE  FOE  LILLE  63 

invincible  support  of  our  artillery,  tucking  water- 
proof sheets  a  little  tighter,  adjusting  a  haversack 
for  one,  a  head-rest  for  another,  always  helping 
to  make  us  as  comfortable  as  circumstances  would 
permit.  He  was  self-forgetful,  simple,  unassum- 
ing ;  always  one  of  us,  yet  at  all  times  thoroughly 
respected.  And  that  night  was  his  last  night  on 
earth. 

The  front  was  as  quiet  as  a  sepulcher.  From 
far  to  the  right,  however,  where  the  French  held 
the  line,  came  the  incessant  rumble  and  crackle  of 
battle.  We  who  knew  the  code  could  make  out  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  the  fight  from  where  we  lay  by 
the  stream  of  star-shells  and  multicolored  flares. 

No  one  slept ;  we  lay  there  relaxed,  staring  up 
at  the  stars.  God  seemed  very  near  to  us  that 
night.  When  the  morning  may  bring  your  last 
day  on  earth,  God  becomes  a  very  real  and  per- 
sonal being  and  not  some  far-off,  intangible  Deity. 
No  man  can  go  into  the  trenches  and  long  remain 
an  atheist.  He  may,  and  usually  does,  blaspheme 
magnificently  in  the  heat  of  battle,  but  in  the  cool 
quiet  of  night,  when  only  the  sky  is  overhead,  he 
knows  beyond  all  question  that  there  is  a  God. 
I  believe  that  war  has  converted  more  men  to  a 
true  Christianity  than  any  other  force  of  modern 
times. 

War's  Christianity  is  not  the  sort  that  sings 


64  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

hymns  on  public  corners.  It  is  a  better  sort, 
which  serves  and  gives  untiringly. 

With  the  morning  came  the  silence  that  is  pro- 
verbial before  the  storm.  Hardly  were  we  out  of 
our  waterproof  sheets  before  the  ever-present 
Mr.  Findley  was  among  us,  passing  out  good  cheer 
and  chocolate.  He  knew  from  experience  that 
after  such  a  night  none  of  us  could  stomach  the 
usual  bully  beef  and  biscuit. 

At  4:45  a  red-capped  observation  officer  ap- 
peared from  nowhere  and  clambered  up  into  a 
tree-top.  After  an  impressive  period  of  time  he 
descended  with  every  evidence  of  satisfaction. 
Evidently  the  stage  was  set  to  a  nicety  and  only 
awaited  the  actors.  Birds  were  twittering;  they 
seemed  oddly  out  of  place.  Their  chirpings  ac- 
tually annoyed  us,  so  tense  were  our  nerves.  A 
lark  shot  suddenly  heavenward,  and  was  roundly 
cursed  for  its  efforts. 

It  was  4 :59 ;  one  minute  more  and  we  would  be 
off  and  away. 

As  the  hands  of  my  watch  touched  five  the  earth 
shook,  the  heavens  rolled  back  vast  billows  of 
sound,  and  the  air  quivered  like  a  living  thing. 
The  quiet  of  a  minute  before  was  engulfed  in  a  hell 
of  sound  that  defied  all  description.  As  if  a  huge 
hand  were  manipulating  the  keys  of  a  tremendous 
organ,  the  batteries,  massed,  some  of  them  wheel 


THE  BATTLE  FOR  LILLE  65 

to  wheel,  over  that  front  of  fifteen  hundred  yards, 
sent  out  their  challenge  to  the  German  hosts. 
From  an  invisible  thing  two  miles  away,  the  front 
line  burst  up  before  us  in  a  streak  of  smoke, 
heaped  high,  wave  on  wave,  and  shot  through  with 
green  sulphurous  fumes,  scintillating  like  waves 
of  heat  on  a  scorching  day. 

Overhead  our  aeroplanes  roared  and  hummed, 
guiding  and  directing  our  fire.  Pretty  things 
they  were,  too,  oddly  birdlike  and  out  of  place 
amid  such  stern  surroundings.  In  numbers  they 
far  outnumbered  the  German  fleet,  and  success- 
fully held  back  the  Teuton  scouts  throughout  the 
day. 

As  we  stood  drinking  in  this  panorama,  the  or- 
der to  advance  came  through,  and  we  started  for- 
ward in  Indian  file,  three  or  four  paces  apart. 
Across  the  terrain  we  floundered,  picking  our  way 
around  shell-holes  and  across  the  debris  of  former 
battle-fields.  There  was  no  fear.  In  the  midst 
of  such  terrific  noise  one  becomes  only  a  shriveled 
nonentity,  incapable  of  conscious  thought. 

As  we  passed  in  front  of  our  batteries,  the  con- 
cussion doubled,  tripled,  and  quadrupled  in  inten- 
sity, and  the  roar  of  a  million  boiler-shops  ripped 
up  and  down  that  line  with  inhuman  exactness 
and  promptitude. 

The  journey  forward  was  a  difficult  one,  but  by 


66  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

9 :30  we  were  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the 
front  line,  and  German  shells  were  beginning  to 
steal  into  our  ranks.  Across  a  particularly  ex- 
posed space  we  ran,  but  even  yet  the  progress  of 
the  battle  was  a  mystery.  No  authentic  word 
came  back ;  the  trenches  to  the  front  were  merely 
a  vortex  of  greenish  and  white  smoke. 

The  Germans  were  concentrating  their  fire  on 
the  communication  trenches  and  on  our  reserves. 
In  fact,  at  this  time  the  men  in  the  front  line  were 
comparatively  safe.  We  of  the  new  draft  were 
having  our  first  experience  in  the  gentle  art  of 
dodging  shells.  One  learns  at  a  rapid  rate  under 
such  forced  schooling.  Within  an  hour  I  could 
tell  with  a  fair  degree  of  accuracy,  or  so  I  thought, 
the  shells  that  bore  the  message  "I  want  to  get 
you."  The  shells  that  would  break  at  a  comfort- 
able distance  seemed  to  have  another  and  less 
ominous  sound  about  them.  I  was  mumbling 
pretty  compliments  to  myself  on  my  own  good 
judgment  when  a  heavy  howitzer-shell  burst  just 
a  little  to  my  left.  Instantly  my  newly  acquired 
confidence  vanished.  The  fear  of  God  entered  my 
heart,  and,  like  Abraham  of  old,  I  fell  flat  on  my 
face  and  remained  there  until  the  sergeant-major 
delivered  a  well-directed  kick  on  a  fitting  portion 
of  my  anatomy. 

In  addition  to  the  shell-fire,  we  were  now  the 


THE  BATTLE  FOE  LILLE  67 

recipients  of  the  small  stuff — pip-squeaks,  aero 
torpedoes,  whiz-bangs,  and  machine-gun-fire. 
Aside  from  shell-fire,  it  is  machine-gun-fire  that 
is  the  most  dangerous  of  all.  It  traverses  up  and 
down  your  line  like  a  great  finger.  As  it  kicks 
up  the  dust  at  your  feet  your  first  inclination  is 
to  flinch  or  dodge,  and  it  takes  some  time  before 
you  realize  that  it  is  only  the  harmless  bullet  that 
you  hear ;  the  one  that  gets  you  is  as  silent  as  the 
path  to  which  it  leads  you. 

After  two  hours  of  this  small  stuff  we  behaved 
like  well-seasoned  troops,  for  we  realized  fully  the 
utter  futility  of  dodging,  and  the  inevitable  fact 
that  our  personal  bullet  would  bring  no  warning 
spat  to  guide  us. 

The  pip-squeak,  however,  continued  to  annoy 
me.  In  fact,  I  never  could  get  really  used  to  their 
acrobatics.  The  father  of  the  pip-squeak  is  that 
whistling  pinwheel  of  the  fireworks  display,  which 
churns  upward  fifty  or  a  hundred  feet,  skids,  and 
then  explodes  in  a  thousand  ill-chosen  directions. 
You  can  hear  a  pip-squeak  coming,  but  its  crazy 
course  is  uncharted.  Like  a  drunken  automobile, 
it  careens,  now  here,  now  there,  and  then  back 
here  again.  The  staggering  figures  following  the 
explosion  of  a  pip-squeak,  however,  will  testify  to 
its  effectiveness  as  an  instrument  of  destruction. 

After  another  half -hour's  delay  there  came  an- 


68  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

other  run  for  it,  and  we  plunged  into  a  communi- 
cation trench  close  to  the  parapeted  dressing-sta- 
tion. 

Here  the  horrors  of  war  burst  in  upon  us  in  all 
their  awful  realism.  Oh,  how  a  chap 's  heart  goes 
out  to  those  poor  wrecks,  tottering,  crawling, 
dragging  themselves  as  best  they  may  to  the  haven 
of  a  first-line  dressing-station!  You  pity  them, 
yes,  and  you  envy  them.  Their  duty  is  done,  their 
waiting  is  over,  they  are  going  back ;  your  duty  is 
ahead,  your  fate  is  uncertain. 

They  say  that  the  first  wounded  man  you  see 
remains  with  you  throughout  your  life,  and  to  this 
day  I  remember  mine  with  an  awful  vividness. 
He  was  just  a  kid,  and  was  sitting  propped  up 
against  the  sand-bagged  parapet,  by  the  side  of 
a  shell-hole  filled  with  slimy  water.  Off  to  the 
left  a  frog  croaked  tirelessly,  heedless  of  the  hell 
about  him.  The  wounded  man 's  eyes  were  closed, 
and  his  breath  was  coming  in  labored  gasps.  His 
tunic  was  thrown  back,  and  his  chest  was  as  white 
as  a  babe's;  but  just  over  his  heart  was  an  ugly 
red  smudge.  Clean  through  the  lung  he  had  it, 
and  as  we  passed  by  he  went  west,  quietly  and 
peacefully,  like  a  little  child  moving  in  its  sleep. 
There  was  none  of  the  glory  of  a  dying  hero  about 
his  passing  over  the  great  divide.  He  had  merely 


1 


THE  BATTLE  FOE  LILLE  69 

done  his  duty,  having  been  shot  on  his  return 
from  delivering  a  despatch.  Through  will  power 
only  he  held  consciousness  long  enough  to  crawl 
back  to  his  superior's  dugout  to  report  his  duty 
finished,  and  then  he  had  passed  on. 

I  was  still  struggling  to  throw  this  picture  out 
of  my  mind  when  another  chap  came  limping 
back,  sweat  streaming  from  his  face  and  both 
hands  held  to  his  groin. 

"Got  a  fag,  boys?"  were  his  first  words.  The 
fag  was  instantly  forthcoming,  but  some  one  had 
to  light  it  for  him,  for  he  refused  to  take  his  hands 
from  his  injured  side. 

"I  got  a  pretty  ' package '  here,"  said  he — 
" shrapnel. "  That  single  word  "shrapnel"  told 
the  entire  story,  the  story  of  a  big  gaping  wound, 
and  I  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"I  'm  getting  awfully  tired,  lads,"  were  his 
next  words;  "I  guess  I  '11  sit  down."  We  helped 
him  to  a  comfortable  corner,  where  he  puffed  con- 
tentedly for  a  moment  upon  his  borrowed  ciga- 
rette, and  then  gasped  and  died. 

Crowding  by  us  in  that  narrow  trench,  came  an 
endless  line  of  blood-soaked  stretcher  cases,  some 
writhing  in  awful  agony,  others  white  and  still 
with  head  wounds.  And  down  on  the  quick  and 
the  dead  alike  beat  the  heat  of  a  noonday  sun. 


70  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

The  ghastly  harvest  streaming  by  us  like  a  night- 
mare blanched  our  faces  and  made  us  ache  to  be 
over  and  done  with  our  share. 

The  waiting — yes,  the  boys  were  right — was 
far  more  wearing  than  any  fighting  that  I  ever 
afterward  experienced.  Perhaps  you  will  not  un- 
derstand the  agony  of  waiting  under  fire.  But 
have  you  ever  paced  the  creosoted  corridors  of  a 
hospital  while  some  one  near  and  dear  to  you 
lay  up-stairs  under  a  skylight,  with  white-robed, 
masked  figures  all  about?  Do  you  remember  how 
the  minutes  crawled  past,  and  how  every  noise 
was  an  explosion?  Do  you  remember  pacing  the 
floor  of  your  own  room,  waiting  for  the  doctor  to 
come  down  and  tell  you,  ''out  of  danger"  or  the 
reverse?  Do  you  remember  how  the  minutes 
passed  then,  and  how  you  would  have  sold  your 
soul  itself  to  have  set  the  clock  ahead,  if  only  for 
one  half -hour? 

Intensify  your  feelings  of  those  moments  a  hun- 
dred-fold, and  you  will  have  some  idea  of  the 
agony  of  waiting  in  a  trench  under  fire. 

By  noon  our  artillery  began  its  barrage  fire 
with  renewed  fury;  but  the  Germans  were  still 
returning  shell  for  shell,  and  by  one  o'clock  many 
of  our  batteries  were  silenced. 

Then  the  report  came  back  that  the  Goorkhas, 
those  fierce  Indian  fighters,  had  taken  the  first 


THE  BATTLE  FOR  LILLE  71 

line  German  trench ;  but  later  in  the  afternoon  we 
were  told  that  they  had  been  driven  out,  and  still 
we  huddled  behind  those  cursed  sand-bags,  in- 
active, burning  to  be  off. 

And  while  we  waited,  let  me  just  say  a  word 
about  those  same  Goorkhas.  They  are  peculiar 
fellows,  as  faithful  as  dogs,  fierce  as  tigers,  with 
a  love  for  their  superior  officers  that  is  childlike 
in  its  simplicity.  Many  times,  when  one  of  their 
leaders  is  killed,  the  thin  veneer  of  civilization 
which  divides  the  Goorkha  from  the  stone  age 
peels  away,  and  without  orders  or  leaders  they  will 
go  over  the  top,  sans  rifle  and  revolver,  armed 
only  with  a  bowie-knife  and  a  fanatical  rage  that 
knows  no  fear  or  reasoning. 

The  bowie-knife  is  the  Goorkha 's  favorite 
weapon,  and  his  expertness  with  it  is  uncanny.  I 
have  known  one  to  snake  away  across  no-man's- 
land  at  night  and  tap  gently  on  the  German  para- 
pet. Instantly  a  helmeted  head  bobs  up  in  in- 
quiry, a  polished  blade  flashes  swiftly,  silently, 
and  a  German  head  rolls  back  into  the  trench, 
while  a  Goorkha  snakes  back  across  no-man's- 
land  with  a  fiendish  gleam  in  his  eye,  and  another 
story  of  prowess  to  tell  to  the  family  circle 
hunched  about  the  meat-pots  back  home. 

At  last  came  the  hoped-for  order,  and  up  to  the 
second  line  trenches  we  filed.  But  here  again  we 


72  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

were  delayed.  Men,  some  wounded,  some  stark 
mad,  rushed  past  us,  fruits  of  high-explosive  shell- 
ing. A  young  lieutenant  plunged  down  the  trench. 
He  was  the  sole  survivor  of  a  Welsh  regiment, 
and  the  frightfulness  of  his  losses  had  quite  un- 
seated his  reason.  Entirely  alone  in  our  trench 
he  stood,  waving  a  light  cane  in  one  hand  and  a 
smoking  revolver  in  the  other,  and  screaming  to 
the  sky: 

''Where  are  my  men!  Good  God,  where  are 
they!  Gone?  All  gone?'*  Then  he  burst  into 
tears. 

A  sergeant-major  who  had  been  wounded  in  the 
arm  came  running  up  to  him. 

''Sir,"  said  he,  "let  me  rally  your  men  while 
you  go  back  to  the  dressing-station.  I  '11  get  the 
boys  together  and  bring  them  back  to  you." 

A  long  and  heated  argument  ensued.  The  lieu- 
tenant was  for  rallying  his  own  men,  but  the  ser- 
geant-major, a  big  strapping  fellow,  with  medal 
ribbons  of  the  Indian  Mutiny  across  his  breast, 
was  no  mean  diplomat,  and  at  last  led  the  lieu- 
tenant back  and  away  from  the  scene  from  which 
he  alone  survived. 

We  of  the  Scottish  sat  huddled  together  in  the 
trench  and  saw  it  all  and  did  nothing.  At  such 
times  reason  sits  but  lightly,  and  some  of  us  joked 
horribly,  some  sang  popular  songs  in  hoarse,  un- 


THE  BATTLE  FOE  LILLE  73 

natural  voices,  others  laughingly  made  out  their 
last  wills  and  testaments.  Fritz  and  his  wonder- 
ful war  machine  came  in  for  their  share  of  compli- 
mentary criticism  and  cursing.  The  older  men 
recounted  many  of  the  ancient  trench  supersti- 
tions— how  it  is  bad  luck  to  light  three  cigarettes 
with  the  same  match.  For  a  time  premonitions  of 
disaster  held  the  floor  as  the  topic  of  a  heated 
discussion.  A  veteran  of  the  Marne  swore  sol- 
emnly that  a  controlling  Deity  stood  between  us 
and  ultimate  defeat,  and  he  retold  with  fervent 
earnestness  how  the  British  retreated  for  ten  days 
at  the  Marne,  and  how  on  the  seventh  day  a  great 
white  sheet  interposed  itself  between  our  men 
and  the  onrushing  gray  horde  of  Germans.  On 
the  eighth  day  this  sheet  took  form  and  shape, 
and  the  Christ  looked  down  upon  our  troops. 

So  the  minutes  passed,  but  still  the  order  to  ad- 
vance was  withheld.  Another  young  lieutenant 
careened  into  the  trench,  bleeding  freely  from  a 
wound  in  his  arm.  Following  him  came  the  rem- 
nants of  his  regiment,  thirty  or  forty  mud-covered, 
torn,  and  tattered  men,  some  limping,  others  curs- 
ing blindly  and  unceasingly.  Squarely  in  front 
of  us  the  lieutenant  formed  his  boys  up,  and  then 
addressed  us : 

"Well,  Jocks,  here  's  what  's  left  of  us  after 
half  an  hour  up  forward.  You  know  what  you 


74  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

can  do  for  us  when  you  go  up  and  over  the  top 
this  afternoon." 

And  individually  and  collectively  we  swore  to 
avenge  his  losses,  the  losses  of  all  England,  the 
losses  of  France  and  Belgium,  and  the  losses  of 
humanity. 

But  the  opportunity  to  avenge  was  delayed,  al- 
ways delayed.  By  us  streamed  an  endless  chain 
of  war's  fresh  horrors,  constant  reminders  of  our 
duty  still  undone.  Blood,  for  us,  had  become  an 
old  story.  We  were  old  men,  aged  immeasurably 
by  six  hours  in  hell's  own  kitchen,  aged  by  six 
hours  of  waiting. 

Oh,  it  is  the  waiting  that  tells,  my  friend.  You 
can  fight  eternally,  you  can  fight  and  die,  but  the 
horror  of  waiting  is  unbearable.  You  sing,  you 
chatter  aimlessly,  you  count  away  the  seconds  and 
the  minutes,  while  over  you  stream  the  Teuton 
shells,  and  by  you  flows  the  awfulness  of  war,  end- 
less testimony  to  the  efficiency  of  forty  years  of 
Teuton  preparation  for  "der  Tag." 

At  last  our  major  came  running  up. 

"Come  on,  boys;  it  's  up  to  us  now  to  finish  the 
job  that  was  started  this  morning.  We  're  off; 
hurry  up."  There  were  no  laggards,  and  up  to 
the  first-line  reserve  trenches  we  ran. 

It  was  now  2 :30.    The  attack,  our  attack,  was  to 


THE  BATTLE  FOR  LILLE  75 

begin  at  three.  Ahead  of  us  the  Black  Watch  had 
gone  forward.  Excitement  rose  to  fever  pitch. 
Our  time  had  come,  but  no.  At  2:50  the  briga- 
dier's runner  came  through,  bearing  a  counter- 
mand. If  curses  could  have  killed  a  man,  that 
man  would  have  gone  west  on  the  double-quick. 
After  delivering  his  order  he  was  off  to  stop  the 
Black  Watch. 

But  he  never  reached  them.  A  cry  went  up 
from  down  the  trench.  The  Black  Watch  were 
going  over  alone.  Utterly  regardless  of  machine- 
gun-fire,  our  heads  popped  up  over  the  parapet. 
Not  four  hundred  yards  away  were  those  chaps. 
We  'd  been  chatting  with  them  two  hours  before. 
They  were  as  cool  as  on  home  parade.  There  was 
no  shouting  or  yelling,  just  a  clean,  collected 
string  of  men  at  double-quick,  rifles  at  their  sides, 
bounding  across  no-man's-land. 

There  is  something  awful  in  such  a  sight — eight 
hundred  men  headed  for  sure  destruction,  and 
with  no  chance  to  help  them.  We  were  fascinated 
by  the  spectacle.  Our  captain  took  in  the  situa- 
tion at  a  glance,  and  rushed  to  the  brigadier's  dug- 
out, where  he  pleaded  and  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  go  over  with  them;  but  already  the  brigadier 
had  used  too  many  men.  The  charge  of  the  Black 
Watch  was  a  mistake;  they  had  failed  to  receive 


76  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

the  countermand.  At  some  place  between  us  and 
them  the  despatch-bearer  had  fallen,  and  eight 
hundred  men  went  with  him. 

It  was  perhaps  seven  or  eight  hundred  yards 
from  our  trenches  to  the  German  line,  nearly  half 
a  mile,  and  over  this  space  went  the  "Ladies  from 
Hell,"  as  the  Germans  call  the  Scottishers.  Even 
the  Hun,  with  all  his  horrors,  seemed  stunned  by 
their  advance.  The  shell-fire  slackened  visibly, 
and  only  the  machine-gun  bullets  remained  to  re- 
mind us  of  our  personal  danger. 

That  day,  it  is  estimated,  the  Germans  had  a 
machine-gun  for  every  five  yards  of  front.  A 
machine-gun  can  pour  out  six  hundred  to  six  hun- 
dred and  fifty  bullets  per  minute.  It  was  into  this 
hail  of  steel  that  our  friends,  the  Black  Watch, 
plunged. 

A  hush  fell  over  our  lines.  Half-way  across, 
and  only  a  scant  six  hundred  of  the  original  eight 
hundred  remained.  Another  hundred  yards  took 
their  toll,  another,  and  then  another.  Then  they 
came  to  the  dummy  trench,  some  twenty-five  or 
thirty  yards  in  front  of  the  German  first  line. 
This  dummy  trench  was  filled  with  barbed  wire, 
and  a  rivulet  had  been  turned  into  it  for  the  occa- 
sion. Two  hundred  men  reached  that  trench,  two 
hundred  men  went  into  it,  but  only  one  hundred 
crossed  it  and  dashed  on  over  the  last  few  yards. 


THE  BATTLE  FOR  LILLE  77 

Then  they  were  gone  from  sight.  Sixty  of  the 
eight  hundred  had  reached  the  German  trench. 
It  was  all  over;  but,  no!  Their  signaler  is  on 
the  German  parapet  calling  for  help,  and  he  is 
calling  for  the  Scottish,  for  us !  And  we  had  or- 
ders to  stay!  God,  man,  it  was  awful!  During 
those  minutes  of  agony  I  grew  old.  The  signaler 
had  barely  finished  his  message  when  he  was  shot 
down,  and  we  sank  back  into  our  trench,  dumb 
with  the  horror  of  it  all.  That  stretch  of  no- 
man's-land,  dotted  with  still  or  writhing  figures, 
swam  before  my  eyes. 

A  cry  went  up.  They  were  coming  back.  Yes, 
sure  enough,  twenty-five  or  thirty  of  them,  di- 
vested of  all  equipment,  were  running  back  to- 
ward us. 

Then  the  heart  that  actuates  the  Teuton  army 
showed  itself  for  what  it  was.  Running  across 
no-man's-land  came  thirty  brave  lads  who  had 
fought  a  brave  fight  and  lost.  They  were  entitled 
to  the  honor  of  any  soldier,  be  he  friend  or  foe; 
but  do  you  think  they  got  it  from  the  Hun? 
They  did  not. 

Here  they  came  running  toward  us,  the  last  of 
eight  hundred.  Behind  them  you  could  hear  the 
crack  of  a  German  machine-gun  going  into  action. 
Like  pigeons  at  a  pigeon  shoot  they  were  trapped, 
but  without  half  the  chance  of  escape  that  we  give 


78  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

the  bird.  Away  over  to  the  left  I  saw  McDonald 
stagger  and  collapse.  On  across  that  fleeing  line 
of  heroes  traversed  that  German  machine-gun. 
One  by  one  the  boys  dropped  until  not  one  re- 
mained. KVLTUR! 

Our  men  at  first  were  dazed ;  they  did  n't  believe 
their  own  eyes.  It  was  impossible  barbarism. 
Thirty  men  entitled  to  all  the  scant  privileges  of 
war  had  been  shot  down  like  gutter-dogs.  Then, 
as  the  reality  broke  in  upon  us,  a  cry  went  up,  and 
a  demand  to  go  over  and  avenge  that  wholesale 
murder.  If  discipline  was  ever  put  to  the  test  it 
was  then.  It  seemed  for  a  minute  as  though  noth- 
ing could  restrain  that  wild  rage,  that  thirst  for 
vengeance,  that  desire  to  rid  ourselves  of  the  hid- 
eous sense  of  impotence  in  the  face  of  such  hor- 
rors. But  the  months  of  training  told,  and  with 
a  few  steadying  words  the  officers  kept  control  of 
the  situation. 

The  day  was  done.  Our  artillery  had  failed  to 
sever  the  German  barbed  wire  sufficiently,  and  as 
our  men  cut  away  at  it  they  had  been  shot  down 
like  rats.  Lille  was  still  to  be  won. 

The  artillery  of  both  sides  still  worked  away 
intermittently,  but  the  work  was  done,  though  far 
from  finished. 

Like  a  continuous  bad  dream  the  wounded 
drifted  past  us,  but  we  did  not  see  or  hear  them. 


THE  BATTLE  FOB  LILLE  79 

It  was  out  yonder,  in  no-man's-land,  that  we  lived, 
out  there  where  our  men  lay  kicking  their  last, 
under  the  heat  of  an  afternoon  sun.  But  even 
yet  the  day  had  not  completed  its  tale  of  horror 
for  us. 

A  random  howitzer-shell  shrieked  overhead. 
Closer  and  closer  it  came.  There  was  a  flash,  a 
stunning  concussion,  and  our  Mr.  Findley  rolled 
out  of  the  smoke.  A  dozen  of  us  rushed  up  to  him 
and  tried  to  stop  the  flow  of  blood  from  the  wound 
in  his  side.  He  was  in  frightful  agony.  Beads 
of  icy  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead,  and  his 
eyes  burned  like  coals.  Near  him  lay  three  other 
boys  of  the  London  Scottish.  He  saw  them,  and 
motioned  to  us  to  stop  in  our  work. 

"Don't  mind  me,  fellows,"  he  said;  "look  after 
those  poor  chaps  over  there.  I  '11  be  all  right — 
soon." 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Steadman,  our  command- 
ing officer,  rushed  up  and  ordered  a  stretcher ;  but 
poor  Findley  was  gone.  They  got  him  back  of 
the  lines  all  right,  but  somewhere  on  the  rough 
road  between  there  and  the  hospital  at  Bethune 
he  went  west,  and  as  he  went  the  British  Empire 
lost  a  man  among  men,  a  Christian  of  war's  awful 
making. 

Volunteers  were  asked  for  to  go  out  into  no- 
man's-land  that  night  and  bring  in  the  wounded. 


80  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

My  pal  Nichols  and  I  stepped  forward,  as  did  the 
vast  majority  of  our  company.  We  were  fortu- 
nate enough  to  be  selected. 

Just  as  we  were  leaving  for  the  rear,  another 
shell  found  us,  and  ten  of  our  number  felt  its  bite. 
I  knew  them  all  intimately.  Eight  of  them  never 
reached  the  hospital.  Callendar  had  a  leg  off,  and 
one  of  the  others  had  had  his  head  blown  off. 
Three  fell  where  they  stood.  I  thought  they  had 
fainted,  but  later  I  learned  that  they  had  been 
killed  by  the  concussion. 

From  this  scene  we  stretcher-bearers  went  back 
for  final  instructions  to  the  dressing-station ;  and, 
oh,  the  horror  of  that  dressing-station!  Long 
rows  of  wounded,  mud-  and  blood-bespattered 
wrecks,  some  groaning  softly,  others  quiet,  still 
others  puffing  cigarettes.  A  canvas  curtain 
flashed  back,  and  three  surgeons  were  revealed 
under  the  oil-lamp. 

Comparatively  few  operations  are  performed  at 
the  dressing-station ;  only  when  seconds  divide  life 
from  death  does  the  dressing-station  do  aught  but 
temporary  bandaging.  From  this  first  station  you 
are  sent  to  a  station  farther  back,  where  your 
wounds  are  minutely  examined,  and  you  are 
marked  for  Blighty  or  for  a  field  hospital,  as  the 
case  may  indicate. 

At  nine,  as  darkness  fell,  we  went  out  into  no- 


THE  BATTLE  FOB  LILLE  81 

man's-land  for  the  first  time  since  we  had  come 
to  France.  Darkness  after  a  battle  is  a  pleasing 
thing.  It  hides  the  gruesome  details  that  day  lays 
bare  in  horrid  profusion.  After  the  day  the  night 
seemed  quiet,  and  we  went  from  form  to  form 
seeking  those  in  whom  the  spark  of  life  still  clung. 
As  star-shells  or  flares  sputtered  upward  we  fell 
prone,  and  imitated  the  still  figures  about  us. 
Between  flares  we  worked  feverishly. 

I  will  not  describe  that  night.  It  beggars  all 
description.  In  the  heat  of  battle  you  forget  the 
horror  of  it,  but  in  the  stillness  of  night  it  flashes 
back  over  you  in  a  mighty  flood. 

I  remember,  I  will  always  remember,  those  end- 
less trips  to  and  from  the  dressing-station — now 
with  a  chap  crying  softly  to  himself,  like  a  little 
baby,  now  with  one  lying  limp  and  voiceless. 
Those  pleading  eyes  that  looked  up  at  us  as  we 
passed  will  haunt  me  till  Berlin  bows. 

4 'For  God's  sake,  boys,  take  me  in!  I  Ve  got 
a  little  wife  and  a  kiddy  at  home — a  kiddy  with 
big  blue  eyes;  yes,  fellows,  blue  eyes." 

"Oh,  boys,  water!    God,  give  me  water!" 

"A  cigarette,  men.  I  'm  going  west  soon,  and 
I  've  got  to  have  a  cigarette  before  I  start. ' ' 

Such  are  the  echoes  of  battle ;  but  it  is  the  still 
form,  shapeless,  somber,  that  raises  no  echoes, 
that  calls  the  loudest  to  you.  How  many  such 


82  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

forms  lay  out  in  no-man's-land  that  night  I  do  not 
know.  I  do  not  even  want  to  know.  It  is  enough 
to  remember  that  call : 

"For  God's  sake,  boys,  take  me  in!  I  've  got 
a  little  wife  and  kiddy  at  home — a  kiddy  with  big 
blue  eyes." 

All  night  we  rushed  back  and  forth  from  one 
hell  to  the  other ;  but  as  day  dawned  we  reported 
for  the  last  time.  Half  of  the  fellows  who  had 
gone  out  on  that  errand  of  mercy  that  night  re- 
mained out  there  among  the  other  dead  and  dying, 
victims  of  the  machine-gun-fire,  which  sweeps  up 
and  down  no-man's-land  by  night  and  day. 

Our  battalion,  on  its  return  from  the  trenches, 
had  been  billeted  fifteen  miles  back  of  the  lines, 
and  as  the  sun  peered  over  the  red  rim  of  the 
world  we  trudged  homeward  to  this  billet.  Those 
were  the  longest  fifteen  miles  I  ever  covered.  The 
excitement  was  gone,  but  the  horror  still  remained. 
The  reaction  had  set  in,  and  Nichols  and  I  floun- 
dered along  those  interminable  miles  of  road,  as 
silent  as  the  grave  which  we  had  left. 

We  found  our  company  in  a  long  shed,  and  we 
tumbled  in  among  them,  worn  to  the  point  of 
breaking.  Two  hours  of  unconsciousness,  and  we 
were  wakened  for  roll-call. 

Roll-call  after  a  battle !  It  is  the  saddest  of  all 
scenes.  As  each  man's  name  is  called  the  com- 


THE  BATTLE  FOR  LILLE  83 

pany  listens.  There  is  a  silence — gone,  another 
one  gone,  another.  God !  Boll-call  after  a  battle 
is  almost  as  bad  as  the  battle  itself.  You  re-live 
it  all,  you  see  that  shell  strike  five  yards  from 
your  dearest  friend ;  Jim,  Pete,  Tommy — all  gone, 
and  you  remember  how  they  went. 

We  had  but  a  scant  eight  hundred  left  from  our 
battalion  of  nearly  four  thousand !  That  is  roll- 
call  after  a  battle.  Thirty-two  hundred  names 
were  called  out  with  no  answer. 

We  of  the  London  Scottish  alone  had  clicked 
five  hundred  and  fifty-four  of  our  original  one 
thousand,  and  we  had  been  mere  reserves  and  had 
seen  none  of  the  real  fighting. 

The  horror  of  it  all  is  indescribable.  We  were 
stunned  by  our  losses.  In  the  heat  of  action  we 
had  hardly  realized  their  immensity.  We  had 
seen  individual  cases,  but  here  the  vast  panorama 
of  horror  was  unrolled  before  us.  The  officers 
realized  our  sensations  and  set  us  free,  and  we 
rambled  over  to  an  orchard,  a  cherry  orchard,  in 
full  bloom. 

From  far  off  came  the  boom  of  the  firing  line, 
but  thank  God  that  was  past  for  the  time.  We 
read  letters  from  home,  and  wrote  replies;  we 
chatted  vaguely,  and  rested,  preparatory  to  the 
next  assault  on  the  German  lines. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   MAN    IN    THE   BLUE   JEANS — A   TRENCH   RAID 

AS  the  afternoon  wore  on  and  our  letters  were 
duly  written  and  censored,  several  of  us 
wandered  over  to  an  estaminet. 

An  estaminet  is  one  of  those  denatured  cafes, 
found  far  behind  the  lines,  at  which  soft  drinks 
and  light  refreshments  may  be  purchased  from 
the  peasantry  of  the  community. 

This  estaminet  was  filled  to  overflowing  with 
the  fortunates  who  had  survived  the  battle  of  the 
previous  day.  Here  we  met  the  Guards  Regiment 
which  had  gone  over  the  top,  only  to  retreat  in 
the  face  of  the  withering  Teuton  machine-gun  fire. 
I  say  we  met  the  regiment,  but  what  we  actually 
met  was  a  scant  tenth  of  it,  for  the  rest  were 
either  back  yonder  in  no-man's-land  or  in  one  or 
more  of  the  field  hospitals. 

For  an  hour  or  two  the  battle  for  Lille  was  re- 
fought.  The  reason  for  its  failure  was  sought  out 
and  found  a  hundred  times,  and  at  a  back  table 
a  group  of  Frenchmen  listened  in  silence. 

Then,  during  one  of  those  lulls  which  sometimes 

84 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS      85 

come  over  even  the  noisiest  of  gatherings,  one  of 
these  taciturn  Frenchmen  sprang  to  his  feet.  In 
broken,  but  excited,  English  he  denounced  the  Scot- 
tish and  all  we  stood  for.  In  fact,  his  denuncia- 
tion covered  quite  an  extensive  territory,  for  it 
encompassed  the  whole  of  England  and  Ireland 
and  most  of  the  colonies.  He  cursed  us  roundly 
as  " slackers"  who  had  failed  to  accomplish  our 
objective. 

Immediately  the  room  was  in  an  uproar.  An 
old  lady,  who  was  the  proprietress,  rushed  in  and 
added  her  shrieks  to  the  general  clamor. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  it  looked  like  a  riot 
or  a  murder  or  both.  But,  fortunately  for  the 
discomfited  Frenchmen,  saner  heads  took  hold  of 
the  situation.  The  hot-headed  native  who  had 
forgotten  himself  was  escorted  none  too  gently 
from  the  estaminet,  to  be  persuaded  verbally,  but 
effectively,  of  the  error  of  his  ways  in  a  less  pub- 
lic spot. 

The  old  proprietress  apologized  to  us  in  her 
most  elegant  and  effusive  English,  and  then  the 
meeting  broke  up.  We  were  momentarily  too 
disgusted  to  continue  to  enjoy  French  hospitality. 

Do  not  misunderstand  me.  We  Tommies  like 
the  French,  we  thoroughly  love  them,  but  occa- 
sionally one  of  these  fiery  Frenchmen,  brooding 
over  multitudinous  hardships,  will  burst  loose, 


86  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

and,  although  his  eruption  is  harmless  enough  to 
us  of  more  stoical  English  stock  who  understand, 
each  such  outburst  leaves  a  temporary  wound. 
But  in  a  few  hours  our  anger  wears  off,  and  we 
laugh  the  matter  down  and  forget  it,  along  with 
the  rest  of  our  manifold  troubles  of  trenchdom. 

On  returning  to  the  billet  that  evening,  word 
was  passed  around  that  there  was  a  spy  in  our 
midst,  who  had  been  active  in  obtaining  informa- 
tion and  in  forwarding  it  with  remarkable  de- 
spatch to  the  German  lines. 

Suspicion  had  been  directed  to  a  workman  in 
one  of  the  adjoining  fields.  Innocent  enough 
he  seemed,  to  all  outward  appearances, — short, 
stocky,  dressed  in  blue  jeans  about  ten  sizes  too 
big  for  him.  To  the  casual  observer  he  was  a 
hard-working  French  peasant,  and  naught  else. 
There  was,  however,  something  a  little  unusual 
about  him.  It  was  perfectly  natural  that  a 
Frenchman  should  take  some  interest  in  our  go- 
ings and  comings,  but  there  is  a  point  at  which 
legitimate  interest  stops,  and  this  man  in  the  blue 
jeans  had  exceeded  these  bounds  of  decent  curi- 
osity. Each  morning  as  we  went  out  on  route 
marches,  regardless  of  the  hour  or  weather,  we 
observed  him  out  there  digging  in  the  field,  always 
digging.  Apparently  this  gentleman  belonged  to 
the  Night  Owl  fraternity,  for  he  was  up  long  be- 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS      87 

fore  the  larks  and  retired  but  very  little  before 
moon-up. 

Such  diligence,  even  for  a  French  peasant,  is 
remarkable.  Even  so,  he  might  have  passed  with- 
out exciting  suspicion,  had  he  not  on  one  occasion 
been  observed  to  pull  out  a  pair  of  binoculars 
from  the  depths  of  his  jeans  and  scan  the  horizon 
and  the  varied  actions  of  our  troops. 

Now,  binoculars  are  not  generally  found  on 
French  peasants.  Neither  does  a  French  peasant 
habitually  use  chance  binoculars  industriously, 
and  then  jot  down  notes  in  a  little  book.  Yet  the 
man  in  the  blue  jeans  had  been  observed  engaged 
in  both  of  these  unusual  pastimes. 

Obviously,  the  case  required  diplomatic  han- 
dling. In  the  first  place,  there  was  danger  of 
hurting  the  peasant 's  feelings,  should  he  prove  to 
be  but  an  innocent  observer  who  by  sheer  chance 
had  come  into  possession  of  a  pair  of  binoculars. 
As  you  can  guess,  the  feelings  of  a  Frenchman 
are  somewhat  easily  injured,  especially  by  false 
suspicions  of  loyalty,  and,  as  we  had  informal 
orders  to  keep  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  French 
people,  both  collectively  and  individually,  our  com- 
manding officer  desired  that  the  man  in  the  blue 
jeans  be  given  the  most  cordial  treatment  possible 
under  the  circumstances. 

Sergeant  McFarland,  who  was  something  of  a 


88  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

linguist  and  particularly  adept  at  the  French  lan- 
guage, was  appointed  Sherlock  Holmes  of  the  oc- 
casion. Promptly  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
he  walked  leisurely  down  the  road  which  ran 
alongside  the  field  in  which  the  peasant  worked. 
The  sergeant's  air  was  one  of  great  unconcern. 
To  all  outward  appearances  he  might  have  been 
a  gentleman  out  for  a  stroll,  viewing  his  estate. 

From  the  neighboring  bushes  we  watched  his 
progress.  Quite  casually  he  observed  the  peas- 
ant, and  engaged  him  in  idle  conversation.  The 
weather  was  thoroughly  covered.  Past,  present, 
and  future  battles  were  discussed,  all  quite  cas- 
ually, of  course,  and  then  we  observed  the  two 
walking  down  the  road  together  toward  battalion 
headquarters.  Later  we  found  that  our  sergeant 
had  invited  the  peasant  to  have  a  neighborly 
drink  with  him  at  the  estaminet. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  if  both  of  them 
walked  by  headquarters,  real  suspicions  had  been 
fastened  upon  the  peasant  and  he  was  to  be  quietly 
nabbed  on  his  arrival.  In  order  to  make  the  kid- 
napping as  genteel  as  possible,  the  sergeant  in- 
vited him  to  step  into  headquarters,  but  the  peas- 
ant was  wise  beyond  his  day  and  age,  and  pro- 
tested vehemently. 

Immediately  a  couple  of  our  boys,  who  had  been 
waiting  for  just  such  a  protest,  carried  him  in 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS      89 

bodily,  and  he  was  immediately  quizzed  in  regard 
to  his  past,  present,  and  probable  future. 

It  was  found  that  he  was  a  Frenchman  all  right, 
but  for  a  long  period  had  been  in  the  employ  of 
the  Wilhelmstrasse.  He  was  of  German-French 
parentage,  born  in  Alsace  of  a  German  father  and 
a  French  mother.  Of  course,  under  these  circum- 
stances, the  German  parentage  predominated,  and 
the  subtle  doctrines  of  the  kaiser  had  been  incul- 
cated in  him  from  his  earliest  youth,  until  now, 
half  French  though  he  was,  he  was  a  willing 
worker  for  that  great  fetish  of  all  Germans,  der 
Vaterland.  Pending  further  investigation,  this 
Germanized  native  of  Alsace  was  sent  back  under 
escort  to  divisional  headquarters. 

The  following  day  the  field  in  which  he  had  been 
so  industriously  digging  for  several  weeks  was 
thoroughly  searched,  and  in  a  little  straw-pile  near 
a  stable,  a  complete  heliograph  outfit  was  dis- 
covered. With  this  he  had  been  relaying  his  in- 
formation to  a  German  observation  balloon  not 
many  miles  away. 

After  observing  the  action  taken  by  your  coun- 
try under  somewhat  similar  circumstances,  I  am 
led  to  believe  that  had  this  man  been  caught  in 
the  same  act  on  the  parade  ground  of  West  Point, 
he  would  have  been  interned  as  a  dangerous  char- 
acter. But  over  there  in  France,  where  the  bodies 


90  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

of  civilized  humanity  are  pushing  the  daisies  up, 
there  is  no  room  for  dangerous  characters.  Over 
there  you  are  either  for  us,  or  you  are  against  us. 
There  is  no  neutral  ground.  You  cannot  be  dan- 
gerous and  live.  In  fact,  it  is  wiser  not  to  be 
even  suspected  of  dangerous  inclinations. 

Circumstantial  though  the  evidence  against  this 
spy  may  have  been,  the  Flanders  front  had  little 
shrift  for  him,  and  a  few  mornings  later  his  back 
was  against  a  stone  wall  and  the  firing  squad 
was  in  front. 

In  and  about  this  little  village  we  rested  for 
four  days,  and  much  rivalry  was  provoked  by  the 
village  beauty.  Every  village  in  France,  you 
know,  has  its  "beauty."  When  the  number  of 
soldiers  sufficiently  outweighs  the  number  of  girls, 
every  girl  becomes  a  recognized  village  beauty. 
But  in  this  particular  instance  there  was  one 
lassie  who  so  far  outshone  the  others  that  she 
was  unanimously  accepted  as  the  logical  Queen 
of  the  May. 

I  remember  her  well.  She  was  tall  and  dark, 
with  the  sparkling  eyes  and  beautiful  carriage  of 
the  typical  young  French  peasant  girl. 

Hardly  had  we  been  in  the  village  an  hour  be- 
fore discussion  was  rife  as  to  who  would  be  her 
escort  for  the  period  of  our  stay.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  good-natured  skirmishing  for  her 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS      91 

smiles;  in  fact,  the  neighboring  estaminet  was 
well-nigh  forsaken  in  favor  of  this  fair  damsel's 
dwelling.  She  was  running  no  estaminet,  but  it 
was  remarkable  how  many  soldiers  found  her 
farm-house  much  cooler  and  more  attractive  than 
the  established  estaminet  a  few  rods  farther 
down  the  street.  I  think  before  the  day  was  over 
the  entire  platoon  had  called,  quite  informally, 
of  course,  at  her  home  and  begged  for  a  cup  of 
coffee,  some  bread  and  butter,  or  for  almost  any- 
thing that  would  give  an  excuse  to  linger  in  her 
presence.  The  prices  which  she  received  for  such 
small  favors  would  make  your  Mr.  Hoover  wail 
with  anguish. 

I  myself  was  one  of  the  aspirants  for  this  fair 
maid's  affections,  and,  thinking  to  steal  a  march 
on  the  rest  of  the  platoon,  I  went  over  there  at 
dusk  one  night,  with  a  very  definite  plan  worked 
out  for  gaining  her  company  during  the  balance 
of  the  evening.  By  devious  paths  I  arrived  at 
her  farm,  and  was  just  going  around  the  barn 
when  I  ran  into  and  nearly  knocked  over  an 
officer,  engaged  in  a  similar  flank  attack  from  the 
rear. 

Evening  is  the  favorite  time  with  officers  for 
affairs  of  the  heart.  The  reasons  are  obvious. 
An  officer  is  not  popularly  supposed  to  be  prone 
to  such  airy  fancies.  Some  of  them  feel  that  it 


92  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

would  lower  them  in  the  estimation  of  their  men, 
were  they  to  be  so  much  as  suspected  of  playing 
the  gay  Lothario.  Hence,  from  the  standpoint  of 
safety,  as  well  as  for  the  romantic  glamour  which 
sifts  down  of  an  evening,  it  is  in  this  dusky  sea- 
son that  the  young  officer  of  the  army  must  do 
his  billing  and  cooing. 

Knowing  this  full  well,  I  required  no  engraved 
invitation  from  the  officer  to  retire.  This  I  did  in 
bad  order,  and  the  officer,  by  force  of  superior 
authority,  became  the  acknowledged  escort  of  the 
lady  fair  throughout  the  balance  of  our  stay. 

From  this  village  we  went  to  Givenchy.  You 
have  heard  long  before  this,  perhaps,  of  the  fa- 
mous brick-fields  of  Givenchy.  A  few  days  before 
our  arrival  these  brick-fields  had  been  the  scene 
of  a  bloody  battle  in  which  three  of  our  regiments 
had  been  engaged. 

The  brick-fields,  or  kilns,  were  arranged  in  long 
rows  twenty  or  thirty  yards  apart.  It  took  our 
forces  an  entire  day  to  capture  the  first  line  of 
kilns,  and  the  better  part  of  a  week  was  consumed 
in  cleaning  the  Germans  out  of  the  vicinity.  It 
was  in  this  locality  that  we  were  to  stay  until  the 
new  draft  arrived  from  England  to  fill  our  ranks, 
depleted  by  the  catastrophe  before  Lille. 

As  we  marched  up,  the  men  whom  we  were  to 
relieve  were  just  returning  from  the  front-line 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS      93 

trenches,  and,  during  a  brief  halt,  we  had  an 
opportunity  to  exchange  the  time  of  day  with 
them. 

I  well  remember  talking  with  one  young  chap 
who  had  seen  his  first  action  at  these  brick-kilns, 
and  I  asked  him  how  things  were  going.  He 
said: 

"To  be  truthful,  it  's  hell  up  there.  I  never 
realized  the  awfulness  of  war  before,  and  do  you 
know,  I  don't  mind  the  fighting  a  bit;  it  is  before 
and  after  the  fighting  that  hurts.  Before  the 
fighting  you  are  waiting  to  be  shot,  and  after 
the  fighting  you  are  waiting  to  bring  in  the  fel- 
lows who  were  shot,  and  you  hear  and  see  them 
all  about  you.  Give  me  fighting  every  time,  but 
let  me  skip  before  and  after. ' ' 

Givenchy  was  just  a  little  hamlet,  with  few 
points  of  interest  aside  from  the  brick-fields  and 
the  remains  of  a  house  which  had  served  both 
Germans  and  French  as  headquarters  when  the 
battle-lines  swayed  back  and  forth. 

I,  along  with  several  other  curiosity-seekers, 
went  over  to  the  ruins  of  the  chateau.  It  was  an 
immense  place,  the  center  of  a  vast  French  es- 
tate. Even  yet,  about  the  courtyard  and  garden, 
were  the  remains  of  trenches  and  many  gruesome 
relics  of  the  hand-to-hand  fighting  that  had  taken 
place  there.  One-half  of  the  house  and  a  liberal 


94  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

portion  of  the  adjoining  territory  were  nothing 
but  a  tremendous  hole  half-filled  with  greenish 
water  and  debris, — the  work  of  a  French  mine. 

Mining  is  one  of  the  most  hazardous  occupations 
carried  on  in  trenchland.  England  is  fortunate  in 
having  a  tremendous  source  of  supply  in  her 
Welsh  coal-miners.  These  men  are  extremely 
quick,  and  are  daring  to  the  point  of  rashness. 

The  mines,  or  "saps"  as  they  are  commonly 
called,  are  tunneled  fifty  to  two  hundred  yards. 
Speed  is  a  necessary  requisite  in  this  work.  The 
dirt  is  carried  away  on  little  tramcars  far  enough 
back  so  that  suspicion  will  not  be  excited  on  the 
opposing  side.  The  saps  are  of  varied  size. 
Some  are  only  large  enough  to  crawl  into,  while 
others  are  four  or  five  feet  high.  In  mining  the 
English  have  very  much  the  edge  on  the  Ger- 
mans. The  Welsh  miners  work  with  almost  in- 
credible swiftness,  scratching  ahead  like  dogs  in 
a  burrow.  They  seem  to  have  an  intuitive  knowl- 
edge of  direction  and  the  general  nature  of  the 
ground  through  which  they  are  digging.  This 
last  is  important,  because  to  strike  a  stone  with 
a  pick  may  disclose  the  progress  of  operations 
to  a  German  listening,  his  ear  to  the  ground,  in  a 
fire-trench  or  similar  sap  not  many  yards  away. 

These  miners  work  in  shifts,  much  as  they  do 
back  under  the  sea  at  the  tip  end  of  England. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS   95 

The  mining  of  Messines  Eidge  bears  ample  tes- 
timony to  their  expertness.  When  a  mine  is  ex- 
ploded, the  earth  belches  up  skyward  in  a  great 
wave.  You  have  doubtless  seen  pictures  of  a  na- 
val battle,  and  you  will  remember  the  action  of 
the  water  when  it  is  struck  by  a  shell.  Under 
the  urge  of  a  high-explosive  mine,  solid  earth 
and  rock  behave  in  much  the  same  manner.  You 
can  literally  see  the  edges  of  the  earth  bend  and 
rush  upward  into  the  air.  Then,  all  about  the 
fringe  of  dirt  and  smoke,  you  see  the  heavier 
objects  dropping  down. 

In  the  mining  of  the  chateau  it  was  a  race 
against  time,  as  both  the  Germans  and  French 
were  mining,  the  Frenchmen  under  the  Germans. 
The  French  got  there  first,  and  as  their  mine 
leaped  up  into  the  air  report  has  it  that  upward 
of  two  thousand  German  reserves,  who  had  just 
come  up  from  their  billets,  went  west. 

The  region  about  Givenchy  had  formerly  been 
a  mining  district,  and  the  fields  were  bare,  except 
for  the  houses,  wrecks  of  which  cluttered  the  bat- 
tle-line for  many  miles  on  each  side.  To  our  right 
was  the  shaft-head  of  a  coal  mine  slightly  behind 
our  lines,  and  the  Germans  shelled  this  constantly 
to  prevent  our  working  it.  It  was  here  that  I  had 
my  first  experience  with  the  German  minenwerfer, 
as  they  ponderously  called  it.  Quick-witted 


96  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Tommy  long  ago  dubbed  this  particular  shell, 
"Minnie."  It  is  about  as  nasty  a  thing  as  I  ever 
had  to  deal  with.  The  shells  that  whistle  high 
above  your  head  are  directed  at  the  artillery  be- 
hind the  lines,  and  they  worry  you  not  at  all.  But 
"Minnie,"  which  Fritz  shoots  from  his  trench- 
mortar,  is  an  exceedingly  nasty  lady.  It  is  a 
large  shell  that  explodes  with  a  tremendous  noise 
and  concussion.  I  have  known  men  to  be  killed 
outright  by  the  concussion  alone.  The  shells  trun- 
dle through  the  air,  and  you  can  actually  see 
them  coming.  This  gives  you  time  to  dodge  down 
into  a  dugout.  But  familiarity  always  breeds 
contempt,  and  we  boys,  after  a  few  days '  acquaint- 
ance with  them,  took  to  shooting  at  these  "Min- 
nies," much  as  though  they  were  clay  pigeons. 

Such  familiarity  should  not  be  taken  to  indi- 
cate the  ineffectiveness  of  the  minenwerfer. 
When  one  of  them  lands  correctly,  which  is  not 
very  frequently,  it  means  a  tremendous  lot  of  pick- 
and-shovel  work  for  several  hours.  Where  a 
"Minnie"  hits,  the  landscape  is  badly  shattered, 
and  a  big  gap  in  the  trench  and  parapet  must  be 
filled  in  double-quick  time. 

We  had  been  at  Givenchy  but  a  few  hours  when 
the  new  draft  of  four  hundred  and  fifty  men  from 
England,  fresh  from  a  training  camp,  came  up 
to  fill  the  pitiful  gaps  in  our  ranks.  With  the 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS      97 

new  draft  came  new  friends,  and  old  friends,  too. 

Home!  How  good  it  seemed  to  hear  from  it 
again!  We  were  like  boys  returning  to  school 
after  a  vacation,  and  we  swapped  stories  of  home- 
and  trench-life  unceasingly,  just  as  those  other 
veterans,  many  of  whom  were  now  dead,  had 
swapped  these  same  stories  with  us  upon  our  ar- 
rival not  many  months  before. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  a  chap  whom  I  had 
known  back  home  came  with  this  draft.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  almost  given  up  hope  of  ever 
reaching  the  firing-line,  owing  to  his  lack  of  skill 
with  a  rifle.  Three  times  he  had  been  turned 
down  for  poor  musketry,  and  he  rejoiced  at  his 
arrival  in  trenchdom  as  though  it  were  a  long- 
postponed  theater  party. 

Under  the  spell  of  the  trenches  friendships  were 
quickly  made,  and  such  friendships  bring  with 
them  a  far  deeper  and  truer  fellowship  than  any 
friendship  formed  under  less  trying  circum- 
stances. There  is  remarkably  little  discord  either 
in  the  trenches  or  behind  the  lines.  Fellowship 
reigns  supreme.  Of  course  we  have  our  little 
squabbles,  but  they  are  squabbles  and  nothing 
more.  There  is  endless  bantering,  but  when  the 
chaffing  reaches  too  white  a  heat  for  comfort,  more 
sober  heads  interpose  and  stop  the  gathering 
storm  before  it  becomes  unmanageable. 


98  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

After  a  day  or  two  of  rest  we  advanced  to  the 
firing  line  in  the  cool  of  evening.  It  was  a  short, 
uphill  walk.  Lights  were  out,  there  was  no  talk- 
ing, and  we  had  strict  orders  to  guard  against 
any  clinking  of  accoutrements.  Reserves  coming 
up  are  a  pet  bull's-eye  for  the  Teuton  artillery, 
and  the  utmost  secrecy  and  quiet  must  be  main- 
tained for  safe-conduct.  At  five  hundred  yards, 
on  a  quiet  night,  the  noise  of  one  bayonet  striking 
against  another  may  mean  the  beginning  of  a  bat- 
tle. Under  such  circumstances  the  carelessness 
of  a  pal,  however  slight,  becomes  a  crime  of  tre- 
mendous proportions.  Your  nerves  are  all  atin- 
gle.  You  almost  fear  to  breathe. 

That  night  I  had  my  first  spell  at  listening-post 
duty.  In  this  sector  we  had  three  listening-posts 
about  one  hundred  yards  apart.  The  first  ex- 
tended out  to  within  seventy -five  yards  of  the  Ger- 
man trench;  the  second  reached  to  within  fifty 
yards ;  and  the  third  was  separated  from  the  hun- 
gry hand  of  the  Hun  by  scarcely  more  than  thirty 
yards. 

It  was  to  this  third  post  that  I  was  ordered. 
Listening-post  duty,  especially  in  an  advanced  po- 
sition such  as  mine,  is  no  sinecure.  There  is  some 
comfort  in  being  in  a  trench  and  knowing  that 
you  have  full  permission  to  fire  whenever  the 
spirit  so  moves,  but  out  in  an  advanced  listening- 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS      99 

post  you  have  strict  and  absolute  orders  to  fire 
under  no  circumstances  whatsoever. 

There  are  two  men  in  such  a  position.  One 
keeps  watch,  while  the  other  stands  ready  to  run 
back  with  any  news  of  an  impending  attack.  My 
particular  listening-post  was  far  out  beyond  our 
own  barbed  wire,  and  was  supposed  to  be  con- 
cealed. Without  exerting  myself  in  the  least,  I 
could  hear  the  Germans  talking  in  their  trench. 
It  rather  amused  me  that  night,  the  way  the  pa- 
trols came  up  every  hour  to  see  that  we  were  on 
the  job  and  not  asleep.  I  couldn't  have  slept  if 
my  life  had  hung  upon  it. 

It  was  a  new  sector,  and  in  no-man's-land  there 
still  remained  a  patch  of  grass  here  and  there 
and  a  few  ghostlike  stalks  of  waving  wheat.  Fifty 
times  that  night  I  identified  one  of  these  stalks  as 
the  advancing  German  army.  I  had  "Boche 
fever,"  and  I  had  it  right.  It  really  wasn't  my 
fault  either,  because  a  certain  fresh  corporal  had 
told  me  in  great  confidence  that  same  evening 
how  he  had  it  on  good  authority  that  the  Germans 
were  going  to  come  over  at  eleven  o'clock. 

Eleven  o'clock  was  my  turn  to  watch  and  the 
other  fellow's  to  run  back,  in  case  the  Germans 
should  come.  At  such  a  time,  of  the  two  horns 
of  the  dilemma,  the  chap  who  runs  back  has  the 
best  horn.  The  one  who  stays  in  the  advance 


100  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

listening-post  has  999  chances  to  1  of  being  put 
on  intimate  terms  with  a  German  bomb  or  bay- 
onet. As  he  is  forbidden  to  fire,  no  matter  what 
the  price  of  silence,  all  he  can  do  is  to  stand  his 
ground  and  trust  that  the  Germans  will  overlook 
him.  The  Huns,  however,  are  very  thorough,  and 
seldom  are  they  guilty  of  such  errors  of  omission. 

With  this  story  of  impending  attack  churning  in 
my  head,  you  can  imagine  my  sensations  as  I  took 
my  turn  and  watched  my  timepiece  tick  away  the 
hours  from  eleven  o'clock  on.  But  my  promised 
Teuton  advance  did  not  materialize,  and  the  cold 
sweat  dried  in  the  chill  breeze  of  morning. 

At  three  o'clock  every  one  "stands  to."  That 
is,  at  this  hour  every  one  must  be  up  on  the  firing- 
step  ready  for  action,  with  rifle  loaded,  safety- 
catch  thrown  back,  and  bayonet  in  place.  Three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  has  a  neck-and-neck  race 
with  dusk  as  the  popular  moment  for  German 
attacks,  and  cruel  experience  has  taught  the  Al- 
lied armies  to  be  ready  at  this  hour. 

The  next  day  came  rumors  of  a  proposed  trench 
raid.  Trench  raids  are  one  means  of  obtaining 
information  in  regard  to  opposing  forces.  The 
raiders  sneak  out  from  a  sap-head  or  advance 
listening-post  and,  if  possible  without  being  dis- 
covered, endeavor  to  jump  into  a  section  of  the 
opposite  trench  and  drag  a  luckless  Fritz  or  two 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS     101 

back  to  their  own  lines.  The  object  of  this  game 
is  to  win  without  firing  a  shot.  So  far  as  I  know 
this  object  has  never  been  attained.  Either  going 
or  coming  or  in  the  middle  of  the  raid  you  are 
discovered  and,  as  a  result,  trench  raids  are  a 
prolific  source  of  casualties. 

Service  in  such  a  raid  is  usually  a  matter  of 
volunteering,  and  that  evening,  when  volunteers 
were  called  for,  I  stepped  forward  and  was  chosen, 
along  with  fifty-two  other  chaps  who  were  anxious 
to  experience  the  zenith  of  trench  excitement. 

It  was  a  deucedly  rotten  night.  A  nasty,  cold 
drizzle  had  settled  down,  and  everything  was 
afloat.  The  tall,  dank  grass  between  our  lines  and 
the  German  trenches  was  wetter  than  the  rain  it- 
self. Occasionally  a  flare  forced  its  way  up 
through  the  mist,  but  it  gave  little  light,  owing 
to  the  vapor  in  the  atmosphere.  On  the  preced- 
ing night  our  patrols  had  been  out  and  had  cut 
a  lane  through  the  German  barbed  wire  that  would 
permit  us  to  go  forward  about  four  abreast. 

Since  quiet  in  going,  coming,  and  execution  of  a 
raid  is  essential,  few  firearms  were  taken  along. 
Our  decorations  that  evening  consisted  largely 
of  long,  ugly  trench-knives  and  "knuckle-dusters" 
or  "brass  knuckles"  as  they  are  known  in  the 
parlance  of  the  second-story  man. 

Before  setting  out  we  were  stripped  of  all  marks 


102  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

of  identification,  such  as  regimental  insignia,  etc., 
so  that  the  capture  of  any  of  us  might  not  disclose 
information  of  value  to  the  enemy. 

While  the  trenches  at  this  point  were  within 
seventy-five  yards  of  each  other,  we  took  a  diag- 
onal course  from  one  of  the  sap-heads  and  had 
about  one  hundred  yards  to  go  across  no-man's- 
land.  Our  objective  was  a  German  sap-head  at 
which  was  posted  a  machine-gun.  It  was  our  priv- 
ilege to  enter  this  sap-head,  capture  the  occupants, 
and  bring  them  back,  along  with  their  machine- 
gun  and,  incidentally,  ourselves.  The  prisoners 
were  to  be  brought  back  alive,  if  possible,  that 
they  might  be  subjected  to  the  "third  degree"  and 
any  and  all  information  in  regard  to  the  opposing 
forces  wrung  from  them. 

A  code  of  signals  had  been  arranged,  so  that 
our  progress  might  be  intelligently  guided  by  the 
officer  in  command.  Such  signals  consist  of  taps 
on  the  ground.  The  commanding  officer  is  in  the 
center.  One  tap  means  "go  forward."  This  is 
passed  down  each  side  of  the  line  until  it  reaches 
the  end.  It  is  then  passed  back.  When  the  offi- 
cer hears  the  tap  come  back,  he  knows  that  all 
are  fully  informed  of  the  movement.  Two  taps 
mean  "halt  after  fifty  paces,"  and  three  taps 
mean  "go  at  them." 

Half  way  across  we  halted  for  a  final  adjust- 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS     103 

ment  of  our  line,  and  then  prepared  to  rush  the 
trench. 

The  machine-gun  implacement  was  just  behind 
the  German  barbed  wire  entanglement  and  ex- 
tended out  from  the  Teuton  line  proper  about 
thirty-five  yards.  As  we  reached  the  breach  in 
the  barbed  wire  we  halted,  took  a  deep  breath,  and 
at  a  given  signal  rushed  forward  as  quietly  as 
haste  would  permit.  Dividing  to  the  left  and 
right,  some  of  us  jumped  into  the  trench  midway 
between  the  implacement  and  the  German  line. 
Others  jumped  into  the  implacement  itself.  Here 
we  found  three  Germans.  One  of  them  was  bay- 
oneted, being  too  unruly  for  convenient  capture. 
The  other  two  were  dragged  back  without  cere- 
mony to  our  own  lines.  Concerning  the  action  at 
the  machine-gun  implacement  I  know  little,  for  I 
was  one  of  ten  who  jumped  into  the  sap  in  order 
to  prevent  the  German  lines  from  sending  assist- 
ance to  their  men  at  the  sap-head. 

Of  course  the  raid  was  overheard  in  the  quiet 
of  the  evening,  and  no  sooner  had  the  first  shot 
been  fired  than  all  of  no-man's-land  became  a  liv- 
ing hell  of  bullets  and  almost  as  bright  as  day  with 
a  multitude  of  flares  from  the  German  trenches. 

I  vaguely  remember  two  Germans — the  trenches 
permit  but  two  men  to  advance  abreast — rushing 
down  upon  us  two  Scottish,  who  stood  between  the 


104  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Germans  and  their  friends  at  the  machine-gun 
implacement.  We  did  not  know  what  was  going 
on  behind  us.  It  was  our  duty  to  fend  off  all  rein- 
forcements from  the  firing  line.  I  braced  myself 
for  the  shock  of  attack.  Somebody  threw  a  bomb, 
and  the  blackness  in  front  of  me  collapsed  and 
sank  down.  Behind  him  came  a  towering  mass 
of  onrushing,  helmeted  forms — myriads  of  them, 
apparently — and  I  lunged  forward  blindly  with 
my  bayonet. 

If  I  should  describe  the  action  of  the  next  two 
minutes,  I  would  be  lying,  because  I  do  not  know 
exactly  what  did  happen.  I  remember  lunging 
repeatedly,  missing  sometimes  and  sometimes  not. 
There  was  no  room  or  time  for  conscious  parry- 
ing, but  when  the  signal  came  for  us  to  retreat  the 
four  of  us  who  survived  the  action  in  the  sap- 
trench  sprang  over  the  edge  and  crawled  back 
for  our  trenches,  like  snakes  bound  for  their  holes 
at  the  break  of  day. 

On  our  return  we  found  our  objective  had  been 
gained — two  German  prisoners  were  there,  big  as 
life.  But  they  proved  expensive  luxuries,  for 
of  the  fifty-three  who  went  out  on  this  trench  raid, 
only  nine  returned.  Some  thirty-five  had  been 
wounded  or  killed,  and  the  others  had  been  cap- 
tured. Five  or  six  of  the  boys  lay  out  in  no- 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  BLUE  JEANS     105 

man's-land  for  twenty-four  hours  before  our 
stretcher-bearers  could  reach  them. 

Yet  with  all  its  dangers  a  trench  raid  has  a  rare 
element  of  excitement.  The  danger  comes  not  so 
much  in  the  raid  itself,  as  on  the  return  journey. 
In  going  over  and  in  the  actual  attack  you  have 
the  element  of  surprise  in  your  favor.  Fritz  in 
his  sap-head  may  be  dozing.  At  best,  he  is  far 
outnumbered.  The  moments  of  real  action  are 
few  and  short.  In  fact,  the  entire  raid  from 
start  to  finish  does  not  consume  more  than  two 
or  three  minutes,  but  it  is  two  or  three  minutes 
of  the  most  intense  fighting*,  where  individual 
initiative  comes  in  for  its  own  and  just  reward. 

I  imagine  that  your  American  troops  will  be 
particularly  successful  at  trench-raid  work.  I  am 
sure  that  they  will  far  outshine  Fritz,  who  is  a 
methodical  being  as  a  rule  and  little  given  to  in- 
dividual thought,  apparently.  When  he  has  or- 
ders to  guide  him,  he  runs  like  some  automaton; 
he  is  uncanny.  But  in  trench  raids,  when  it  is 
man  for  man  and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost, 
Fritz  is  rather  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  it  all 
and  is  more  than  likely  to  be  captured  without 
much  show  of  resistance,  in  which,  perhaps,  he  is 
wise. 


CHAPTER  V 

MB.  FINDLEY'S  GEAVE — TBENCH  LIFE — NICHOLS  GOES 
WEST 

VERY  shortly  our  battalion  was  ordered  back 
to  Bethune. 

We  set  off  late  one  night  and  covered  the  twelve 
kilometers  by  early  dawn  of  the  following  day. 
There  we  found  the  billets  to  which  we  had  been 
assigned  were  chock  full  of  sleeping  soldiery. 
Our  commanding  officer  and  the  officer  in  charge 
of  the  billet  exchanged  numerous  uncomplimen- 
tary remarks  as  a  result  of  the  mixup.  But  in 
war,  as  in  peace,  possession  is  nine  points  of  the 
law,  and  we  had  to  seek  other  billets  elsewhere. 

By  the  best  of  good  fortune  we  located  one  of 
those  old  French  barns  which  are  two  or  three 
times  as  large  as  the  barn  with  which  you  are 
familiar.  The  floors  are  tile,  and  along  the  sides 
are  great  beams  covered  with  hay.  These  hay- 
covered  beams  are  at  a  premium  among  the  boys, 
and  the  first-comers  invariably  clamber  up  to 
them  and  usurp  them  for  their  own. 

Little  time  was  spent  in  sleeping,  however,  for 
100 


ME.  FINDLEY'S  GEAVE  107 

we  were  once  more  near  to  civilization.  Accom- 
panied by  six  or  eight  of  my  comrades,  I  drew 
what  pay  was  coming  to  me  and  went  into  Bethune 
proper,  where  my  $2.50  quickly  disappeared  into 
the  outstretched  hands  of  the  genial  French  popu- 
lace. 

After  a  brief  but  cheering  hour  of  fellowship  at 
an  estaminet,  we  started  across  town  with  the 
avowed  intention  of  finding  Mr.  Findley's  grave. 
The  last  we  had  seen  of  Mr.  Findley  had  been 
at  the  battle  for  Lille.  We  knew  that  he  had  been 
buried  in  the  military  cemetery  at  Bethune.  Fol- 
lowing directions,  we  went  through  the  town  and 
out  on  the  far  side,  where  in  the  distance  we  saw 
the  civilian  cemetery  stretching  out  before  us. 

The  old  caretaker  at  the  gate  examined  us  se- 
verely, but  after  much  gesticulation  our  mission 
was  explained  to  him,  and  he  swung  back  the 
heavy  bronze  gateway  as  though  it  were  a  duty 
second  only  in  importance  to  that  of  the  Premier. 

This  was  my  first  sight  of  a  French  cemetery, 
and  I  was  struck  with  the  simple,  unpretentious 
manner  in  which  the  French  decorate  the  graves 
of  their  dead.  Humble  little  marble  crosses  were 
everywhere.  Occasionally  a  more  pretentious 
vault  loomed  up.  Pictures  of  Christ  were  all 
about.  On  the  more  humble  graves  were  bouquets 
of  waxed  flowers  under  glass  cases. 


108  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Through  this  depressing  scene  we  strode,  real- 
izing full  well  how  our  costumes  jangled  with  the 
peaceful  surroundings.  On  the  far  side  the  mili- 
tary cemetery  adjoined  the  civilian  cemetery. 
There  was  no  mistaking  it,  for,  as  we  came  to 
the  edge  of  the  formal  civilian  plot,  God's  mili- 
tary acre  stretched  out  before  us  on  either  side 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  mute  testimony  to 
the  efficiency  of  kultur. 

The  military  cemetery  was  a  sharp  contrast  to 
the  civilian  resting-place  we  had  left  behind  us. 
Row  on  row  of  plain  deal  crosses  swept  away  into 
the  distance  and  over  the  slight  rise  of  ground, 
apparently  endlessly. 

To  our  right  were  a  number  of  rows  of  newly- 
dug  graves.  To  the  reader  not  familiar  with 
war,  or  unhardened  to  its  practical  side,  the 
method  of  burying  even  our  honored  dead  will 
come  with  something  of  a  shock.  Very  few  of 
them  have  a  single  grave.  Instead,  long  trenches 
are  dug,  the  sides  stepping  up  like  mammoth 
steps  on  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt.  In  the  lowest 
trench  rests  a  single  rough  casket;  on  top  of  it 
and  on  each  side,  on  the  next  higher  step,  are 
other  caskets ;  and  so  on  upward  until  the  trench 
is  filled. 

In  quiet  times,  when  there  is  little  fighting,  these 
trenches  are  dug  in  preparation  for  the  sterner 


MR.  FINDLEY 'S  GRAVE  109 

days  to  come,  and  you  will  always  see  the  ends  of 
a  pile  of  rough  boxes  jutting  out  into  daylight, 
awaiting  new  arrivals  before  the  earth  is  thrown 
over  them. 

Yet  in  all  its  immensity  this  cemetery  repre- 
sented only  a  fraction  of  our  Allied  dead.  It  is 
only  those  who  reach  the  hospital  to  die  who  are 
formally  buried  in  such  a  cemetery.  Those  who 
are  fortunate,  or  unfortunate,  enough  to  die  a 
sudden  death  out  in  no-man's-land,  or  in  trench- 
land,  are  hastily  buried  in  a  shallow  scooped-out 
grave  hard  by,  and  lucky,  indeed,  are  they  if  so 
much  as  a  plain  cross  decorates  their  last  resting- 
place. 

It  was  down  row  after  row  of  these  polygamous 
graves  that  we  strode,  hunting  for  that  little  cross 
which  would  mark  the  grave  of  our  Mr.  Findley. 
We  knew  that  we  would  recognize  it,  for  we  had 
been  told  that  it  was  set  apart  from  its  fellows 
by  the  red  Saint  Andrew's  Cross  of  Scotland. 
And  so  at  last  we  came  upon  it. 

At  such  moments  nothing  is  said  and  nothing 
is  done.  Man  and  life  and  all  life 's  petty  vicissi- 
tudes become  as  little  things  in  the  face  of  the 
grim  reaper.  About  Mr.  Findley 's  grave  we 
stood,  hatless  and  wordless,  silent  tributes  to  this 
great  Christian  of  war's  making  and  to  the  cause 
for  which  he  fought  and  gave  his  all. 


110  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Then,  instinctively,  we  bent  and  each  gathered 
a  handful  of  pebbles.  With  them  we  outlined 
the  approximate  boundaries  of  Mr.  Findley's 
grave,  not  knowing  then  whether  he  rested  di- 
rectly underneath  or  two  or  three  layers  down. 
But  it  seemed  only  right  that  a  man  who  had 
given  so  much,  both  in  life  and  in  death,  should 
have  his  grave  set  apart,  if  only  by  a  little,  from 
those  surrounding  him. 

We  finished  our  work  of  reverence  and  de- 
parted, walking  silently  through  the  military  cem- 
etery and  then  on  through  the  civilian  cemetery 
by  which  we  had  entered.  As  we  passed,  we 
met  a  company  of  French  women.  There  were 
five  of  them.  One  was  evidently  the  mother,  while 
the  others  may  have  been  her  daughters  or  near 
of  kin.  They  were  of  the  peasant  class,  roughly 
dressed,  with  wooden  sabots.  The  old  mother 
cried  incessantly,  while  the  younger  women  busied 
themselves  nervously  in  decorating  one  of  the 
graves  with  the  simple  offerings  afforded  by  their 
scanty  income.  An  ordinary  little  jam-pot  was 
upturned.  Within  it  was  an  inscription,  scrib- 
bled, perhaps,  by  the  village  padre,  awaiting  only 
the  time  when  the  family 's  savings  would  be  suf- 
ficient to  warrant  a  more  pretentious  record  of 
their  loved  one's  life  and  death. 

And  over  it  all,  like  the  bass  notes  of  a  great 


MR.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  111 

organ,  played  the  roar  of  distant  gun-fire,  an 
incessant  salute  to  those  who  had  gone  on  never 
to  return. 

Saddened  by  our  grim  mission  of  the  afternoon, 
we  felt  in  need  of  another  visit  to  an  estaminet 
on  our  return  journey.  By  pooling  our  resources 
we  managed  to  collect  sufficient  funds  for  a  brief, 
a  very  brief,  stay.  One  of  the  boys,  who  was 
more  familiar  with  the  estaminets  of  Bethune 
than  the  rest  of  us,  led  the  way  to  one  where 
he  assured  us  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  France 
waited  on  table.  In  my  estimation  his  judgment 
was  nearly  correct,  but,  after  all,  when  you  have 
been  in  the  trenches  for  three  or  four  weeks,  a 
feminine  face  takes  on  a  charm  never  seen  in 
civilian  life.  Unquestionably,  however,  this  little 
waitress  was  of  no  ordinary  clay.  She  was  a 
petite  little  thing,  fully  experienced  in  the  proper 
handling  of  British  soldiery.  Though  we  had  but 
little,  we  spent  our  last  cent.  If  we  had  had  ten 
times  as  much,  she  and  her  wily  ways  would  have 
won  it  all  from  us  just  as  easily. 

I  am  in  much  accord  with  Mark  Twain,  who 
says  that  the  French  do  not  understand  their  own 
language.  Certainly,  in  ordering  a  meal  the 
French  have  no  more  idea  of  what  we  Britishers 
desire  than  have  we  of  the  proper  word  to  de- 
scribe it.  The  usual  order  at  a  French  estaminet 


112  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

is  the  French  for  "four-egg  omelet."  This  pref- 
erence for  omelets,  and  particularly  for  a  "four- 
egg  omelet,"  will  be  understood  when  I  tell  you 
that  the  French  phrase  sounds  much  like  "omelet 
with  a  cat  roof."  When  all  else  fails,  by  a  sim- 
ple process  of  memory  "omelet  with  a  cat  roof" 
brings  the  desired  results.  Hence  it  has  become 
the  standard  meal  of  the  British  soldier  seeking 
a  change  of  diet  at  a  French  estaminet. 

While  returning  to  the  billet  we  met  a  com- 
pany of  troops  coming  from  the  living  hell  at 
Ypres.  Like  all  troops,  they  were  "grousing" 
and  complaining  about  everything,  from  the  stars 
above  to  the  earth  beneath.  They  were  leaving 
the  hottest  part  of  the  line  for  one  of  the  more 
quiet  sections.  This  they  felt  to  be  ample  cause 
for  complaint.  I  do  not  know,  but  probably  their 
rations  had  been  unusually  good,  their  officers 
unusually  considerate,  and  the  mail  service  from 
home  unusually  liberal;  hence  nothing  remained 
worth  complaining  about  except  this  very  satis- 
factory transfer.  They  made  the  most  of  it. 

Immediately  upon  our  return  to  Bethune  that 
afternoon  our  battalion  was  transferred  to  a  posi- 
tion nearer  the  firing-line.  As  we  marched  out  of 
the  town  the  last  bakery  shop  was  bought  out  of 
all  supplies,  and  we  marched  on,  laden  down 


ME.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  113 

equally  with  equipment  and  delicacies  of  French 
concoction. 

It  may  seem  odd  to  you  that  we  could  spend  all 
our  money  at  a  French  estaminet  and  yet  have 
more  for  the  luxury  of  a  French  bakery.  This 
is  easily  understood  when  I  explain  that  one  sol- 
dier's credit  on  leaving  a  town  is  perfectly  good 
for  another.  Neither  may  ever  return,  and  hence 
money  on  the  way  up  to  the  firing-line  is  one  of 
the  most  valueless  of  all  possessions.  When 
leaving  the  firing-line,  however,  and  when  ap- 
proaching a  town,  money  takes  on  added  stature 
and  girth.  It  so  happened  that  we  were  leaving 
the  luxuries  of  life  for  the  stern  realities  of  the 
trench,  and  those  with  money  about  them  found 
it  valueless,  since  there  was  nothing  on  which 
to  spend  it.  Therefore  they  much  preferred  to 
lend  it  and  thereby  provide  for  a  rainy  day  to 
come, — should  that  day  ever  arrive. 

Up  to  the  extreme  right  of  the  British  line  we 
went,  replacing  a  number  of  French  troops  who 
had  been  withdrawn  in  preparation  for  a  drive  in 
the  Champagne  district,  a  prelude  to  the  Battle 
of  Champagne  and  later  to  Verdun. 

It  was  now  dark  as  the  proverbial  coal-hole. 
About  a  mile  or  a  mile  and  a  half  back  of  the  line 
proper  we  entered  the  communication  trench,  and 


114  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

for  seemingly  endless  hours  we  tramped  on,  turn 
after  turn,  endlessly  and  always.  A  mile  and 
a  half  as  the  crow  flies  is  likely  to  be  three  miles 
or  more  in  a  communication  trench. 

Coming  back  all  the  time  were  men  laden  down 
with  this  or  that,  and  others  were  going  to  relieve 
them  or  to  replace  them,  for  no  man  can  leave  the 
front  line  without  another  coming  to  take  his 
place.  The  front  line  must  always  be  filled. 

As  we  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  occasional  flares 
which  shot  up  higher  than  their  brothers  gave 
us  a  vague  hint  of  our  general  direction,  but  when 
they  went  out  the  night  seemed  blacker  than 
before,  and  east  and  west  and  north  and  south 
became  mere  figures  of  speech.  Under  a  huge 
chateau  we  went,  like  New  Yorkers  on  their  way 
to  work.  Here  the  trench  branched  out  to  the  left 
and  to  the  right,  and,  owing  to  the  darkness,  part 
of  our  battalion  lost  touch  with  the  balance  and 
wound  its  way  down  the  left-hand  trench. 

We  did  not  discover  this  until  we  were  almost 
at  the  front  line,  when  we  had  to  return  and  find 
our  lost  brethren.  We  located  them  swearing 
away  in  the  left-hand  trench,  which,  after  endless 
plodding,  they  had  discovered  to  be  a  blind  alley. 

Fifty  yards  from  the  front  line  we  encountered 
the  French  regiment  returning.  No  more  foreign- 
looking  body  of  men  have  I  ever  seen.  They  were 


MR.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  115 

laden  down  with  odd-shaped  packs  that,  in  the 
darkness,  gave  them  a  wholly  unnatural  size  and 
shape.  Their  excitement  over  leaving  the  danger 
zone  was  childlike;  their  impetuosity  was  in 
marked  contrast  to  the  stolid  advance  of  us  Brit- 
ishers. We  were  perfectly  content  to  be  hemmed 
in  by  trench-walls ;  but  not  so  the  Frenchmen.  As 
each  turn  in  the  trench  was  reached,  a  dozen  or 
more  of  them  would  explode  with  impatience  and 
bound  up  to  the  top  of  the  trench,  to  run  across 
the  open  country  unimpeded  on  their  homeward 
path. 

Our  officers  had  been  up  to  this  trench  the  day 
before  and  were  thoroughly  familiar  with  it  and 
its  contour.  Before  leaving  we  had  been  informed 
of  our  individual  duties  and  of  the  general  lay 
of  the  land.  Hence,  on  entering  this  strange 
trench,  we  were  comparatively  at  home  and 
quickly  settled  down  into  the  ordinary  routine  of 
trench-life. 

The  line  was  quiet  at  this  time.  By  "quiet"  I 
mean  that  there  was  no  particular  "drive"  going 
on.  Of  course  the  Germans  have  a  hatred  for  ab- 
solute quiet,  and  so,  at  carefully  predetermined 
occasions,  they  send  over  their  "coal-boxes"  and 
their  "Jack  Johnsons,"  with  an  occasional  minen- 
werfer  to  punctuate  the  silence.  At  hours  estab- 
lished in  their  code  of  battle  they  tune  up  their 


116  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

"Hymn  of  Hate,"  but  generally  this  is  directed 
more  at  the  batteries  in  the  rear  than  at  the  front 
line.  After  weeks  of  familiarity  with  the  German 
brand  of  hate,  it  becomes  nothing  more  than  a 
method  of  setting  one's  watch,  so  regular  is  it  in 
its  appearance. 

One  night,  shortly  after  dusk,  a  despatch-rider 
wound  his  way  up  through  the  trench  and  came 
running  to  the  dugout  of  the  O.  C.  The  arrival 
of  a  despatch-rider  is  not  an  everyday  occurrence, 
and  his  appearance  usually  forms  the  basis  for  a 
tremendous  amount  of  discussion  and  conjecture 
as  to  the  possible  contents  of  his  message. 

So  it  was  to-night.  The  O.  C.  took  the  envelope 
from  him,  read  the  despatch  hastily,  and  imme- 
diately the  news  spread  clown  the  trench  that  Italy 
had  entered  the  war  and  had  already  mobilized 
and  taken  the  field. 

This  news  was  received  with  astonishment  by 
our  troops,  for  you  must  understand  that  the  man 
in  the  trenches  knows  little  that  is  going  on,  ex- 
cept within  a  radius  of  two  or  three  hundred 
yards.  National  politics,  international  intrigues, 
and  the  events  of  which  you  read,  are  ancient  his- 
tory before  he  ever  hears  of  them.  Oftentimes  he 
will  receive  papers,  but  always  they  are  three  to 
six  days  old,  and  in  these  stirring  times  a  three- 
day-old  newspaper  is  as  ancient  as  the  Book  of 


MB.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  117 

Exodus.  When  boundary  lines  change  overnight, 
when  history  is  being  written  with  every  passing 
moment,  even  a  "last  edition'*  is  likely  to  be 
moldy.  Hence  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
the  entrance  of  Italy  into  the  lists  came  as  a 
distinct  surprise,  but  none  the  less  a  welcome 
one. 

Such  an  unusual  event  was  reckoned  worthy  of 
a  fitting  celebration.  Much  discussion  ensued  as 
to  the  proper  method  of  signaling  the  arrival  of 
so  gallant  an  ally.  By  a  burst  of  inspiration  our 
commanding  officer  suggested  that  the  Boches  be 
appraised  of  their  newest  enemy  through  the  med- 
ium of  three  rounds  of  rapid  fire  and  three  cheers, 
followed  by  an  immediate  plunge  for  the  nearest 
dugout  on  the  part  of  the  celebrants. 

This  suggestion  received  the  unanimous  ap- 
proval of  the  entire  battalion,  and  forthwith  three 
rounds  of  lead  and  three  rounds  of  cheers  were 
sent  over  with  equal  enthusiasm  and  despatch. 
The  idea  was  accepted  as  a  standard  method  of 
celebration  throughout  the  line,  and  from  the  far 
right  of  the  British  line  on  across  France  and  Bel- 
gium three  mighty  cheers  rang  out  as  a  welcome 
to  Italy. 

Such  exuberance  from  British  troops  was  diag- 
nosed by  the  Germans  as  a  preliminary  to  an  at- 
tack, and  we  had  hardly  made  the  dugouts  when 


118  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

the  roar  of  German  machine-guns  echoed  our 
cheers  to  the  horizon. 

Perhaps  at  this  point  I  might  dispel  one  or  two 
illusions  which  apparently  exist  in  minds  not  fa- 
miliar with  life  in  trenchdom.  You  hear  a  great 
deal  about  a  man  being  "on"  for  one  hour  and 
"off"  for  four.  "On"  means  that  he  is  "on 
watch,"  while  "off"  means  that  he  is  off  watch 
but  on  the  job.  There  are  no  union  hours  in  the 
front  line  or  behind  it.  While  your  mechanics  are 
arguing  over  the  necessity  for  an  eight-hour  day ; 
while  the  I.  W.  W.  are  striking  and  rioting  to  gain 
themselves  a  softer  seat  or  a  more  comfortable 
job;  while  Nihilists  and  Reds  of  more  attractive 
name,  but  equally  traitorous  desires,  are  holding 
long  meetings  and  giving  vent  to  windy  speeches, 
your  man  in  the  front  line  is  working  twenty-four 
hours  a  day,  and  the  only  thing  that  keeps  him 
from  working  longer  is  the  arrival  of  another  day. 

Sleep  in  the  front  line  is  a  fictitious  quantity. 
There  is  no  such  thing.  When  there  are  no  ra- 
tions to  be  carried,  there  are  bombs  to  be  carried ; 
when  there  are  no  bombs  required,  ammunition  for 
the  omnivorous  machine-guns  is  urgently  neces- 
sary; when  the  machine-gun  has  its  pantry  full, 
there  are  sand-bags  to  be  filled  or  communication 
trenches  to  be  dug.  The  man  in  the  front  line  has 
neither  sleep  nor  holiday.  True,  he  may  drop 


MR.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  119 

down  in  his  tracks  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  he  does 
not  sleep.  His  eyes  are  closed,  he  is  unconscious, 
but  he  does  not  sleep.  Over  him  always  broods 
the  possibility  of  a  Hun  invasion.  His  dreams 
are  riotous;  he  fights  and  dies  a  hundred  times 
during  that  hour;  and  he  rises  only  slightly  re- 
freshed, only  a  little  more  ready  to  do  his  "bit," 
as  some  of  you  please  to  call  it. 

As  you  review  the  incessant  duties  of  the  front 
line,  you  will  understand  why  it  is  that  night  loses 
its  meaning,  and  day  likewise.  The  stand-to  or- 
der at  3  A.  M.  does  not  inconvenience  as  it  would 
were  you  a  civilian  accustomed  to  rising  at  six  and 
retiring  at  ten.  There  is  no  conscious  day  or 
night  when  you  are  in  the  front  line.  Each  day 
is  just  twenty-four  indistinguishable  hours  of  in- 
terminable toil.  Is  it  any  wonder,  therefore,  that 
the  soldier  returns  to  his  rest-billet  to  drop  down 
absolutely  unconscious,  blissfully  at  peace,  to 
sleep  for  twelve  or  sixteen  hours  at  a  stretch 
without  so  much  as  moving  a  muscle  f 

There  are  no  favorites  in  the  front  line.  It  is 
turn  and  turn  about.  The  battalion  roster  shows 
a  record  of  each  man's  duties  throughout  a  period 
of  time,  and  if  a  man  does  not  volunteer  for  any 
particular  task,  he  is  assigned  whatever  task  may 
arise.  A  daily  chore  is  the  ration  fatigue.  This 
means  bringing  up  cheese,  biscuits,  bread,  and  the 


120  "LADIES  FEOM  HELL" 

nightly  jar  of  rum,  or  the  big  "dixies"  smoking 
with  a  soup  concocted  from  vegetables,  meat,  etc. 
There  is  also  the  inevitable  and  much-dreaded  jar 
of  jam. 

One  ration  fatigue  in  which  I  engaged  stands 
out  very  clearly  in  my  mind,  since  it  was  my  first 
formal  introduction  to  the  German  gas  attack. 
Gas  attacks  to-day  have  lost  some  of  their  initial 
horror.  We  have  learned  how  to  deal  with  them. 
To-day  the  front  line  listening-posts  are  on  the 
lookout  for  such  attacks,  and  when  that  greenish 
horror — as  innocent  in  appearance  as  any  cloud, 
but  as  deadly  as  the  fumes  of  old  Vesuvius — ap- 
pears in  the  foreground,  electric-horns  blare  out 
their  warning  to  the  front  line,  and  on  back  and 
back  to  ten  or  fifteen  miles  behind  the  trenches. 

Brassiers  are  also  used  along  the  trenches  at  a 
distance  of  twenty  or  thirty  yards.  The  upflung 
current  of  air  from  these  little  fires  causes  the 
gas  to  rise  and  float  on  and  over,  without  harming 
those  underneath.  But  in  the  early  days  of  which 
I  speak,  a  gas  attack  was  an  unknown  quantity. 
Gas  shells  were  a  dreaded  horror,  and  gas  masks 
were  the  most  rudimentary  affairs  imaginable. 

We  were  returning  to  the  front  line  with  our  ra- 
tions, and  had  almost  reached  our  goal,  when  there 
came  the  scream  of  a  shell,  a  blinding  flash,  and 
then  a  deafening  explosion  but  a  little  way  ahead 


ME.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  121 

of  us.  It  was  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  away,  I  should 
say.  Our  column  of  ration-carriers  stopped  like 
a  man  who  has  been  hit  a  solar-plexus  blow.  I 
saw  a  few  of  the  fellows  up  front  plunge  forward 
or  topple  over  and  sink  down,  as  though  their 
legs  had  been  made  of  putty.  A  sweet,  apple- 
cider-like  smell  wafted  its  way  to  my  nostrils.  At 
first  I  did  not  recognize  it  and  took  a  deeper 
breath.  Instantly  I  felt  as  though  a  giant  hand 
held  my  lungs.  Gradually  these  hands  tightened, 
and  my  muscles  contracted.  I  was  not  suffocat- 
ing for  want  of  air,  but  for  want  of  strength  to 
breathe  it. 

I  flung  down  my  load  of  biscuits  and  grabbed 
my  gas  mask,  made  only  of  a  piece  of  medicated 
cotton  and  a  veil.  But  it  was  too  late.  This 
grim  chlorine  giant  who  held  my  lungs  merely 
tightened  his  grasp,  and  I  bounded  to  the  top  of 
the  trench  and  sped  away  as  fast  as  my  legs  and 
a  reeling  earth  would  let  me.  Over  to  the  dress- 
ing-station I  went,  where  the  medical  officer,  be- 
tween spells  of  violent  coughing  and  spitting  of 
greenish  phlegm,  dosed  me  with  a  vile  licorice 
compound  that  somewhat  eased  my  intense  dis- 
comfort. 

All  that  night  I  spent  under  his  care,  along  with 
three  or  four  other  fellows  who  had  likewise  man- 
aged to  stumble  over  to  the  station.  Shortly  af- 


122  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

terward  four  others  were  brought  in.  They  were 
too  far  gone  to  travel  without  aid.  These  boys 
brought  word  that  four  of  the  fellows  had  been 
put  out  entirely  by  shell-shock,  while  six  had  been 
thoroughly  gassed  and  were  even  now  hovering  on 
the  brink  of  death. 

After  the  immediate  effects  of  the  slight  gassing 
had  worn  off,  I  returned  to  the  front  line,  but  for 
many  days  thereafter  I  was  intensely  weak,  and 
my  eyesight  was  badly  dimmed.  As  a  rude  warn- 
ing against  future  attacks,  we  filled  bully-beef 
cans  with  stones  and  hung  them  up  and  down  the 
trench,  where  a  watch  could  shake  them  and  an- 
nounce the  approach  of  any  sort  of  gas  attack,  be 
it  by  shell  or  cloud. 

After  our  spell  of  duty  in  the  front  line  we 
returned  to  the  rest-billets,  where  the  rumble  of 
cartwheels  told  us  that  the  post  was  arriving. 
The  carts  were  piled  mountain  high  with  mail- 
bags  such  as  you  use  in  your  country,  each  marked 
for  a  certain  platoon.  Immediately  there  was  ju- 
bilation. The  sergeant  distributed  the  parcels 
and  letters,  and  cares  and  troubles  vanished  forth- 
with. Cakes,  candy,  cocoa,  coffee,  cheese,  butter, 
books,  magazines,  and  papers  were  all  forthcom- 
ing, and  how  welcome  they  were!  Some  poor 
chaps,  perhaps  not  such  good  correspondents  as 
the  rest  of  us,  were  forgotten  by  the  home  folks, 


International  Film  Service  Inc. 

After  the  day's  work 
A  bagpiper  entertaining  his  comrades  behind  the  lines 


MB.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE!  123^ 

they  stole  off  into  lonesome  corners  to  take 
What  empty  cheer  they  could  from  the  random 
&ts  of  cake  and  candy  given  them  by  sympathiz- 
ing comrades. 

Let  me  beseech  you  never  to  send  a  man  in  the 
fighting  line  a  case  of  jam,  or  even  a  jar  of  jam. 
Jam  and  mud  are  synonymous  terms  in  the  minds 
of  fighting  men.  They  are  fed  up  on  jam.  What 
they  want  is  some  of  this  ready-prepared  cocoa  or 
chocolate  to  which  one  need  only  add  hot  water. 
Butter  is  at  a  premium.  Cheese,  likewise,  is  a 
luxury.  Sweet  biscuits,  hard  enough  to  stand  the 
rough  journey,  are  rare  and  welcome  delicacies. 
Helmets,  trench  mirrors,  and  similar  personal  ac- 
cessories are  always  received  with  open  arms. 

The  arrival  of  any  packet  from  home  is  an  event 
of  importance,  so  don  't  forget  the  boys  whom  you 
know,  when  they  are  on  the  firing  line.  The  re- 
ceipt of  a  letter  means  as  much  to  them  as  a  trip 
to  the  theater  does  to  you.  A  package  full  of  deli- 
cacies —  well,  do  you  remember  what  a  package 
from  home  meant  to  you  when  you  were  away  at 
school?  Multiply  that  keen  joy  ten-fold,  add  to  it 
the  urgent  need  for  all  such  things,  and  you  will 
have  a  vague  conception  of  the  good  that  you  are 
doing  when  you  send  one  of  your  boys  in  khaki 
a  little  package  bearing  the  brief  but  welcome 
sign,  "Made  in  the  U.  S.  A. 


" 


124  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Back  in  the  billet  our  principal  duty  was  the 
digging  of  sundry  communication  trenches  in  and 
about  the  line.  I  remember  that  one  night  a  num- 
ber of  us  were  engaged  in  digging  through  an  old 
German  trench  and  enlarging  it  so  that  it  might 
better  serve  our  needs.  It  was  awfully  hard 
work,  because  the  straw-thatched  dugouts  had 
partially  fallen  in  and  matted  down  in  a  mass  that 
was  almost  shovel-proof.  Hence  it  was  no  sur- 
prise to  me  when  my  pick  struck  and  stuck  fast 
in  what  appeared  to  be  a  log.  I  remember  kicking 
away  at  it,  and  finally,  after  loosening  it  a  trifle, 
I  leaned  over  to  remove  the  offending  timber. 
Locking  my  hands  firmly  around  it,  I  braced  my 
feet,  gave  a  giant  pull,  and  tumbled  over  flat  on 
my  back. 

But  it  was  no  log  in  which  I  had  imbedded  my 
pick,  neither  was  it  a  log  that  I  held  in  my  hand. 
I  had  a  German's  boot,  and  then  some  besides. 
The  balance  of  that  German  was  back  there  under 
the  thatched  straw.  The  horribleness  of  it,  plus 
the  rotten  stench,  filled  me  with  an  ague,  and,  to- 
gether with  my  comrades,  I  ran  back  down  the 
trench,  where  we  met  the  sergeant.  He  gruffly 
inquired  the  reason  for  our  haste.  We  directed 
him  to  follow  his  nose  to  the  bend,  where  the 
reason  for  our  speed  would  be  self-evident.  He 


MR.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  125 

did  as  directed,  and  shortly  returned  to  order  us 
to  another  part  of  the  line  where  this  most  awful 
reality  of  the  battle-field  would  not  obtrude  itself 
upon  our  eyes  and  nostrils. 

Returning  to  the  billet  that  night,  after  five 
hours'  steady  and  fatiguing  work,  we  flung  our- 
selves down,  tired  to  the  very  marrow  of  our 
bones.  The  billet  was  quiet,  except  for  the  oc- 
casional snore  of  a  sleeping  fighter.  Next  to  me 
lay  a  man  who  had  been  eternally  and  everlast- 
ingly bragging  of  his  freedom  from  ' '  seam-squir- 
rels," as  we  had  come  to  call  the  crawlers.  This 
name  was  due  to  their  great  preference  for  the 
seams  of  our  kilts.  As  I  lay  down  I  noticed  this 
braggard  twitching  nervously.  The  twitch  grew 
into  a  vast  convulsion  that  shook  him  from  head 
to  foot.  Suddenly  he  sat  up,  looked  about  fur- 
tively, stared  at  me,  and  then,  thinking  that  I 
slept,  he  clandestinely  removed  his  outer  and  up- 
per garments  and  gave  way  to  a  luxurious  scratch- 
ing. 

The  "seam-squirrels"  had  caught  him  at  last, 
and  in  my  intense  joy  at  his  discomfort — for  he 
had  boasted  most  gloriously  of  his  freedom  from 
attack — I  awakened  the  balance  of  the  company  to 
view  his  discomfiture.  Their  joy  equalled  mine, 
but  only  for  a  little  time.  There  is  something 


126  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

about  the  sight  of  a  man  scratching,  and  taking 
a  keen  satisfaction  in  it,  that  is  contagious.  I  had 
not  been  watching  the  object  of  our  mirth  for  more 
than  two  minutes  before  I  felt  every  "seam- 
squirrel"  on  my  body.  They  wriggled,  they 
squirmed,  they  crawled,  and  they  bit.  The  itch 
spread  over  the  entire  billet,  and  for  the  next 
half  hour  the  night  was  given  over  to  a  revelry 
of  scratching. 

Then  back  to  the  line  we  went,  and  Nichols 
and  I  volunteered  for  advance  listening-post  duty. 
At  nine  o'clock  that  night  we  went  out.  The  ad- 
vance listening-post  at  this  section  of  the  line  was 
fifty  yards  from  the  German  trench.  From  one 
o'clock  until  two  was  my  time  to  watch,  and  it 
was  during  this  period  that  Nichols  was  supposed 
to  sleep.  Along  about  half -past  twelve,  however, 
during  his  watch,  the  line  to  our  left  became 
"windy,"  which  is  trench  parlance  for  nervous 
and  a  trifle  frightened. 

The  "windiness"  spread  from  left  to  right,  un- 
til the  entire  line  was  in  an  uproar  and  the  Ger- 
mans were  being  severely  pelted  with  small-arm 
fire.  The  ' '  windiness ' '  reached  its  cold  finger  out 
into  our  listening-post,  and  when  it  came  my  turn 
to  watch,  Nichols  told  me  that  he  was  going  to 
stand  with  me,  since  he  was  too  excited  to  rest  in 
the  bottom  of  the  trench.  So  we  stood  up  there 


ME.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  127 

together,  with  our  eyes  just  over  the  top  of  the 
sand-bags. 

We  had  been  standing  there  together,  shoulder 
to  shoulder  for  a  scant  ten  minutes,  when  Nichols 
slid  along  the  bank  toward  me  and  leaned  heavily 
against  me.  At  first  I. thought  he  had  gone  to 
sleep  from  exhaustion,  and  I  turned  around  to 
push  him  upright  once  more.  As  I  withdrew  the 
support  of  my  body,  Nichols  collapsed  like  a 
straw-man  and  rolled  down  into  the  muddy  bot- 
tom of  the  trench. 

Even  then  I  did  not  realize  what  had  happened. 
I  leaned  over  and  lifted  his  head  in  my  hands. 
Just  then  a  star-shell  shot  high  up  in  the  heavens 
above  our  little  hole  in  the  ground,  and  I  saw 
why  Nichols  was  "exhausted." 

Bight  in  the  temple  he  had  it,  and  down  his 
cheek  and  upon  my  hand  flowed  his  blood.  I 
watched  it  like  a  man  in  a  stupor,  so  slowly  it 
oozed  out  dark  and  warm.  Nichols  was  going 
west.  He  opened  his  eyes  a  trifle,  the  lids  flut- 
tered, the  star-shell  went  out,  and  with  it  went 
old  friend  Nichols.  He  had  been  my  pal  from 
the  battle  for  Lille  until  this  cold  wet  night  out 
in  the  front-line  listening-post  of  Vermelles. 

I  called  softly  to  him,  hoping  that  perhaps  he 
would  arouse,  if  only  long  enough  to  say  good- 
bye. But  Nick  was  gone.  I  covered  him  with 


128  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

his  waterproof  sheet  and  stood  up  on  the  firing- 
step  once  more.  From  half-past  one  until  relief 
arrived  I  watched  there  beside  Nichols  in  the  sap- 
head,  with  the  Teuton  army  only  fifty  yards  away. 

They  carried  him  away  on  a  stretcher,  and 
when  I  returned  I  went  to  our  captain  and  asked 
for  a  decent  burial  for  Nick.  Next  morning  six 
of  us  took  him  back  on  the  same  stretcher  on 
which  they  had  carried  him  out  from  his  duty. 
No  casket  awaited  Nick.  Only  a  rough  shroud  of 
sacking  and  a  Union  Jack.  Back  to  Vermelles 
we  bore  him.  There  we  dug  a  little  grave — God, 
but  it  was  a  shallow  one! — and  lifted  old  Nick 
down  into  it.  We  stood  about  with  bowed  heads 
for  a  little  while,  and  that  was  the  only  tribute 
that  poor  Nichols  had. 

Then  I  hurried  away,  for  I  could  not  bear  to 
see  the  earth,  cold  and  wet,  shoveled  over  that 
figure  which  stood  for  one  of  the  best  friends 
a  man  ever  had,  and  one  of  the  truest  patriots  that 
ever  breathed  the  breath  of  London's  streets  or 
fought  in  the  battle  for  democracy. 

As  I  wound  my  way  up  through  the  communi- 
cation trench  to  the  front  line,  the  sport  of  war 
was  gone,  and  I  swore  a  solemn  oath  to  avenge 
Nichols  and  to  make  the  bullet  that  sent  him  west 
take  its  quadrupled  toll  of  Germans. 


MR.  FINDLEY'S  GRAVE  129 

I  immediately  volunteered  for  sniper's  service, 
for  which  I  was  fitted  by  my  record  as  a  marks- 
man at  the  training  camp.  I  was  accepted,  and 
entered  upon  my  career  as  a  free-for-all  sniper  in 
the  ranks  of  his  Majesty  the  King. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SNIPING  —  THE    TRAITOR    AT    BETHUNE  —  WHAT 
HAPPENED  AT 


ON  receiving  my  credentials  as  a  sniper,  the 
freedom  of  our  section  of  the  trench  was 
given  to  me,  and  the  sniper's  insignia  of  crossed 
rifles  was  emblazoned  on  my  left  coat-sleeve. 

Owing  to  the  critical  and  delicately  nervous 
work  of  the  sniper,  he  is  freed  from  the  irksome 
round  of  trench  duties  that  are  the  lot  of  com- 
mon soldiery.  The  day  and  the  night  are  his  to 
do  with  as  he  pleases.  His  association  with  the 
commanding  officer  is  close,  much  closer  than  here- 
tofore. He  does  not  even  live  in  the  trench,  but 
back  a  little  ways,  where  the  intense  strain  of  con- 
stant and  watchful  waiting  may  not  wear  upon  his 
marksmanship. 

I  had  been  a  sniper  for  about  one  week,  and  had 
the  layout  of  our  section  of  the  trench  and  of  the 
opposing  lines  well  in  mind,  when  one  afternoon 
our  captain,  Mr.  MacKenzie,  came  to  me  and  told 
me  of  work  definitely  cut  out  for  us.  Our  task 
was  to  locate  and  silence  a  Boche  machine-gun 

130 


SNIPING  131 

which  had  been  proving  its  effectiveness  through- 
out the  previous  week. 

That  night,  soon  after  darkness  fell,  ten  of  us 
crawled  out  into  no-man's-land  until  we  were 
within  one  hundred  yards  of  the  German  trench. 
Here  we  divided  into  five  parties  of  two  each,  and 
each  party  dug  itself  into  a  hole.  By  two  o  'clock 
our  work  was  finished,  and  the  dirt  we  had  dug  up 
was  spread  about  over  a  wide  area,  so  as  not  to 
attract  the  attention  of  watchful  eyes  in  the  op- 
posing trench.  In  front  of  our  five  little  holes 
we  had  transplanted  some  of  the  dank  grass  which 
sometimes  springs  up  in  no-man's-land  under  the 
influence  of  heavy  rain  and  hot  sunshine. 

By  two  o'clock  we  had  finished  and  had  jumped 
into  our  burrows,  with  a  sniper  and  an  observer 
in  each  burrow.  On  my  rifle  I  had  a  telescopic 
sight  and  a  silencer,  the  latter  making  firing  prac- 
tically inaudible.  The  telescopic  sight  is  one  of 
the  devilish  ingenuities  of  modern  warfare.  It 
brings  the  man  at  the  business  end  of  the  gun 
to  within  almost  reaching  distance  of  you.  You 
can  pick  out  any  place  upon  his  body,  and  be- 
tween the  crossed  hairlines  on  the  sight  you  can 
almost  snip  the  buttons  off  his  coat,  if  you  so 
wish. 

Between  our  five  holes  we  had  strung  a  string, 
so  that  the  one  who  first  located  the  offending 


132  "LADIES  FKOM  HELL" 

machine-gun  could  signal  its  exact  location  to  the 
others.  Beforehand  we  had  agreed  upon  a  defi- 
nite code,  and  by  sun-up  we  were  well  along  to- 
ward locating  the  object  of  our  endeavors. 

By  careful  listening,  combined  with  the  trained 
eye  of  our  observers,  who  were  aided  by  their 
binoculars,  we  located  our  gun  in  a  concrete  em- 
placement to  the  extreme  right  of  our  sector  of 
the  trench.  The  sniping  officer  gave  an  order 
that  only  the  snipers  on  the  right  of  our  line  of 
dugouts  were  to  seek  out  the  men  behind  the 
Teuton  gun. 

This  gun  was  very  carefully  concealed  by  an 
elaborate,  concrete  structure,  carefully  draped 
with  moss,  leaves,  and  debris,  but  in  the  middle 
of  it  was  a  slot  about  a  foot  high  and  two  or  three 
feet  long.  It  was  through  this  slot,  at  a  distance 
of  about  five  hundred  yards,  that  we  were  to  send 
our  shots.  Behind  it  we  could  see  nothing.  We 
had  to  trust  to  the  guiding  instrument  of  justice 
to  seek  out  that  machine-gun  crew. 

I  presume  that  I  had  fired  not  more  than 
twelve  shots  when  the  rat-a-tat-tat  which  had  orig- 
inally revealed  it  to  us  died  away,  to  appear  no 
more  that  day.  Perhaps  some  of  our  shots 
reached  their  mark.  Of  course  I  cannot  tell  and 
will  never  know. 

Hardly  had  the  machine-gun  been  silenced,  how- 


SNIPING  133 

ever,  when  the  usual  scream  of  overhead  shells 
changed  their  tune,  and  they  began  dropping  woe- 
fully close  to  us.  Perhaps  we  had  been  located,  or 
perhaps  a  German  observation-balloon,  away  off 
to  the  left,  had  picked  us  up.  In  any  event,  we 
dropped  down  into  our  dugouts  and  disappeared 
completely  from  the  range  of  vision,  but  not  before 
two  of  our  boys  on  the  extreme  left  had  been  killed 
by  a  well-directed  Teuton  shell.  Aeroplanes,  too, 
had  been  going  overhead,  unimpeded  by  any  Eng- 
lish machines,  and  in  all  probability  our  position 
had  become  the  public  property  of  the  German 
gunners. 

Throughout  the  balance  of  that  day  our  lives 
were  a  nightmare  of  expectation,  for  we  did  not 
know  when  one  of  those  shells  would  drop  into 
the  narrow  confines  of  our  individual  dugout,  and, 
believe  me,  there  are  much  more  comfortable  bed- 
fellows than  the  German  "Jack  Johnson." 

At  the  first  opportunity  after  nightfall  we 
sneaked  across  and  over  into  our  own  sap-head 
again,  and  returned  to  the  rear.  On  the  way  back, 
as  we  came  to  a  corner  of  the  road,  we  stumbled 
over  a  prone  figure,  apparently  in  a  dead  stupor. 
The  man  was  drunk.  There  was  no  denying  it, 
for  you  could  whiff  the  odor  of  rum  for  many 
feet  about  him.  He  had  been  sent  back  for  the 
usual  daily  rum-ration,  and  on  the  return  journey 


134  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

had  succumbed  to  the  wholesale  temptation  on 
his  shoulder.  Of  course  our  officer  had  to  report 
him,  and  as  he  was  an  old  offender,  he  was  placed 
under  arrest,  subject  to  a  drumhead  court-martial. 

Army  life  has  many  punishments,  but  one  of  the 
most  extreme  is  the  first-class  field  punishment 
which  was  meted  out  to  this  habitual  drunk- 
ard. It  consists  in  tying  a  man,  with  his  hands 
held  high  over  his  head,  to  a  convenient  tree,  door- 
post, or  artillery  wheel  for  two  hours  each  day — 
one  hour  in  the  morning  and  one  hour  in  the  after- 
noon. This  is  what  is  known  as  the  "spread 
eagle,"  and  it  is  usually  imposed  for  a  period  of 
seventy-two  days,  at  the  end  of  which  time  any 
sane  man  will  hurry  back  to  the  straight  and  nar- 
row path  of  rectitude. 

The  attitude  of  the  soldiery  toward  a  man  so 
strung  up  is  one  of  intense  hatred  and  derision. 
The  trained  soldier  realizes  that  his  life  and  the 
lives  of  all  his  fellows  depends  primarily  on  strict 
discipline.  A  man  condemned  to  first-class  field- 
punishment  is  generally  a  violator  of  discipline, 
and  as  such  well  merits  the  wrath  of  his  entire 
regiment. 

During  this  period  of  our  stay  the  German  lines 
were  about  six  hundred  yards  away,  and  the  soil 
— typical  of  all  soil  in  this  sector — was  chalky. 
During  the  hot  days  of  summer  the  heat  radiated 


SNIPING  135 

from  the  ground  as  though  it  were  a  hot  stove-lid, 
and  this  made  it  doubly  difficult  to  do  any  accurate 
firing,  owing  to  mirage.  It  therefore  became  our 
daily  duty  to  fire  "test  shots"  from  various  lis^ 
tening-posts — shots  directed  at  each  foot  and  each 
yard  of  the  opposing  trenches — in  order  to  keep 
our  marksmanship  up  to  the  minute  and  to  accus- 
tom ourselves  to  the  annoying  mirage  that  is 
prevalent  during  the  summer. 

Foot  by  foot  we  would  sweep  down  the  German 
line,  our  observers  meanwhile  watching  carefully 
for  the  splash  of  chalk-like  smoke  that  indicated 
a  hit.  The  necessary  corrections,  range,  and  ad- 
justment would  be  marked  down  upon  a  sheet,  and 
so,  after  a  few  days  of  such  experiments,  we  had 
our  entire  sector  of  six  hundred  yards  thoroughly 
tabulated. 

Then  we  settled  down  to  await  the  need  for  our 
services. 

Our  preparations  had  been  none  too  soon,  for 
a  German  sniper  was  reported  to  be  giving  trou- 
ble. He  had  already  hit  six  of  our  officers,  and 
his  depredations  continued  unabated. 

This  German  sniper  was  one  of  the  daredevil 
variety.  I  suspect  that  he  must  have  been  a  cir- 
cus clown  or  a  loop-the-loop  rider  before  his  en- 
trance into  military  life.  Instead  of  hiding  him- 
self, as  is  the  sniper's  custom,  this  chap  would 


136  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

carelessly  arise  on  the  parapet,  sometimes  with 
a  preliminary  yell  to  attract  our  attention,  and 
then  would  fire  his  rifle  with  exasperating  aban- 
don. We  came  to  know  him  as  * '  Jack-in-the- 
Box."  He  would  bob  up  at  odd  intervals  in  dif- 
ferent sections  of  the  trench.  In  the  morning  he 
might  be  on  the  extreme  right,  in  the  afternoon 
on  the  extreme  left,  and  toward  evening  in  the 
center.  His  very  daring  seemed  to  be  in  his  fa- 
vor, because  for  over  a  week  we  worked  on  him 
without  success.  In  the  meantime  he  had  ac- 
counted for  four  more  of  our  men.  He  made  a 
specialty  of  officers,  though,  as  became  one  of  his 
daring. 

Our  corps  of  snipers  quickly  fell  into  bad  re- 
pute. We  dared  not  enter  a  trench,  unless  we 
cared  to  take  a  verbal  "strafing"  that  had  the 
sting  of  truth  behind  it.  Day  after  day  we  waited 
for  him,  but  always  fruitlessly. 

One  night  we  snipers  got  together  and  agreed 
upon  a  definite  plan  of  campaign  to  wipe  out  this 
annoying  fellow — and  with  him  the  unsavory  rep- 
utation that  had  fallen  upon  our  heads. 

The  following  morning  the  ten  of  us  set  out — 
each  taking  as  his  own  a  prearranged  section  of 
the  German  trench.  We  watched  all  that  day, 
meanwhile  revising  our  ranges  and  firing  adjust- 
ments until  I  personally  felt  confident  that  I  could 


SNIPING  137 

split  a  match,  should  it  be  lifted  above  the  Teuton 
parapet.  During  our  preparations,  our  friend 
across  the  way  kept  remarkably  silent,  and  we 
prayed  soulfully  to  ourselves  that  some  random 
bullet  had  reached  its  mark. 

But  no.  On  the  second  afternoon,  on  the  ex- 
treme right  of  the  line,  we  heard  the  familiar  crack 
of  a  German  rifle.  A  German  rifle  makes  a  differ- 
ent noise  than  does  the  English  Lee-Enfield.  The 
English  gun  sounds  like  the  bang  of  a  door, 
whereas  the  German  rifle  makes  a  noise  like  the 
crack  of  a  giant  whip — sharp,  stinging,  and  bale- 
ful. 

Word  was  passed  down  the  line  that  "Jack-in- 
the-Box"  was  up  to  his  old  tricks.  He  had  bagged 
another  officer,  and  a  snarl  of  derision  slipped 
down  the  trench  to  me  at  the  extreme  left.  As 
the  minutes  passed,  our  German  dare-devil,  as  per 
his  usual  custom,  paraded  down  his  sector  of  the 
line  and  at  odd  intervals  jumped  up  to  taunt  us  or 
to  fling  a  shot  across.  Closer  and  closer  he  came 
to  my  end  of  the  line. 

Just  opposite  to  me  was  a  slight  bend  in  the 
German  trench.  I  figured  that  the  Teuton  sniper 
would  appear  here,  as  it  brought  him  a  trifle  closer 
to  our  line  and  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  prac- 
tise his  pet  trick  of  enfilade,  or  cross-fire.  With 
the  assistance  of  my  observer  I  sought  out  every 


138  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

foot  of  this  parapet  with  my  experimental  shots. 
I  next  adjusted  my  elevation  so  that  future  shots 
would  clear  the  parapet  by  a  scant  six  inches. 
Then  I  waited. 

It  was  a  remarkably  fine  day  for  sniping.  The 
air  was  as  clear  as  a  bell  and  there  was  little  mi- 
rage to  annoy  one.  Far  up  to  the  right  I  saw  the 
fellow  bob  up  and  down,  and  I  figured  that  my 
section  of  the  line  would  be  his  next  appearance. 
At  a  word  from  my  observer,  I  peered  through 
my  sight  and  saw  the  top  of  his  head  moving  along 
the  chosen  sector  of  the  German  parapet.  He  was 
playing  into  my  hands  for  a  surety.  Evidently, 
from  the  motion  of  his  head,  he  was  conversing 
with  some  one  just  below,  but  hardly  enough  of 
his  anatomy  showed  itself  as  yet  to  warrant  my 
risking  a  shot.  I  had  him  well  covered,  and  in 
the  powerful  telescopic  sight  I  could  almost  see 
every  hair  on  his  head,  for,  with  typical  bravado, 
he  had  not  bothered  to  protect  himself  with  the 
usual  gray-colored  cap  of  a  Hun  sniper. 

Gradually,  across  the  hair-line  of  my  sight,  his 
face  appeared,  and  then  his  chest.  He  rested  his 
rifle  with  his  usual  debonair  flourish,  sighted  it 
very  carefully,  and  then  apparently  the  dandy's 
collar  hurt  him,  for  he  made  a  motion  as  though 
to  stretch  his  neck  and  release  his  Adam's  apple 
from  uncomfortable  pressure.  Through  my  rifle- 


SNIPING  139 

sight  the  whole  action  was  as  clear  as  though  it 
were  ten  feet  away,  and  I  smiled  quietly  as  I 
pulled  the  trigger. 

There  was  a  crack,  my  observer  shouted,  and  I 
could  see  our  friend,  the  Boche  jack-in-the-box, 
flop  forward  across  the  Teuton  parapet  like  a  be- 
headed chicken.  The  honor  of  the  snipers'  corps 
had  been  retrieved,  and  my  old  friend  Nichols  had 
been  avenged. 

Within  a  week  we  moved  out  of  Vermelles  to 
within  about  five  kilometers  of  Bethune.  Our 
billets  were  in  a  wee  bit  of  a  village,  which  for 
some  reason  the  Germans  had  marked  for  shell- 
fire.  Throughout  our  stay  there  we  were  under 
constant  punishment,  and  the  business  of  dodging 
shells  became  an  obsession  with  us.  I  remember 
that  this  town,  despite  its  popularity  with  the 
German  artillery,  boasted  six  untouched  estam- 
inets.  I  was  in  one  of  them  one  afternoon  when 
the  steady  screeching  of  the  shells  overhead 
turned  to  a  more  livid  scream,  and  we  knew  that 
they  were  coming  our  way. 

Two  blocks  away  we  heard  one.  Then  came  an 
explosion  outside  that  stopped  our  hearts  and 
pulled  the  breath  out  of  our  lungs.  We  counted 
heads,  and  the  twelve  of  us  were  still  drinking  our 
chocolate  unharmed.  But  not  so  next  door.  The 
shell  had  fallen  in  the  back-yard  of  the  adjoining 


140  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

house,  and  debris  and  splinters,  flying  through 
the  windows,  had  laid  low  two  of  our  company. 
By  some  stroke  of  misfortune  the  two  who  had 
gone  west  through  the  ministrations  of  this  ran- 
dom shell,  directed  far  behind  the  line,  had  been 
with  us  unharmed  since  the  very  beginning.  The 
Battle  of  the  Marne  and  the  horrors  before  Lille 
had  left  them  unscathed.  Such  is  the  luck  of  war- 
fare. 

From  here  we  moved  back  to  Bethune,  where 
report  had  it  that  a  spy  was  located.  Through 
some  means  he  had  been  directing  the  Teuton  ar- 
tillery-fire with  uncanny  accuracy. 

The  first  morning  that  I  was  down  in  the  busi- 
ness district  near  the  railroad  yard,  I  and  my  com- 
rades noticed  what  others  had  already  noticed, 
namely,  an  unholy  number  of  locomotive-whistles 
coming  from  the  switching-yard  behind  the  depot. 
We  also  noticed  that  several  minutes  after  each 
whistle-blast  a  German  shell  came  over  and  sought 
out  some  particularly  vulnerable  spot,  such  as  a 
cross-roads  or  a  warehouse. 

We  were  not  the  only  ones  who  marked  this 
strange  coincidence,  and  immediately  a  watch  was 
set  upon  the  railroad  yard.  Persistent  search 
among  the  puffing  locomotives  betrayed  the  fact 
that  a  certain  engineer  was  doing  far  more  than 
his  share  of  whistle-tooting.  Once  suspicions 


SNIPING  141 

were  aroused,  it  was  easy  to  imagine  that  its  toots 
ran  perilously  near  a  code.  Furthermore,  regard- 
less of  where  the  shells  hit,  this  locomotive  seemed 
always  to  be  at  a  distant  place.  In  war-time  a 
little  suspicion  is  ample  and  sufficient  ground  for 
action.  One  does  not  have  to  blow  up  an  ammuni- 
tion-depot in  order  to  be  called  before  a  court- 
martial  as  a  spy.  The  engineer  of  the  suspected 
locomotive  was  taken  into  custody  and  subjected 
to  the  * '  third  degree, ' '  which  is  about  ten  degrees 
hotter  than  the  * '  third  degree  "  of  a  police  depart- 
ment. 

After  sufficient  persuasion  this  engineer,  who, 
by  the  way,  was  a  Frenchman,  admitted  that  he 
had  been  working  under  the  orders  of  a  certain 
alderman  or  other  dignitary  of  Bethune,  who  like- 
wise was  a  Frenchman.  He  admitted  that  his 
whistles  had  been  arranged  according  to  a  prede- 
termined code,  this  code  being  changed  each  day. 

A  daily  change  of  code  meant  a  daily  and  close 
communication  with  the  German  lines.  The 
means  of  communication  adopted  by  this  traitor- 
ous Frenchman  was  far  closer  than  you  might 
imagine.  He  had  a  private  telegraph-wire  run- 
ning underground  to  German  headquarters.  Over 
this  he  had  been  conversing  for  some  time  in  a 
most  leisurely  and  carefree  manner. 

We  need  not  go  into  detail  as  to  what  happened 


142  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

to  these  two  "patriots."  It  is  sufficient  to  say 
that  they  will  not  bother  Bethune  again.  I  tell 
this  incident  as  an  indication  of  the  fact  that  Ger- 
man intrigue  does  not  stop  with  your  lowly  peas- 
ant working  in  the  fields  of  Flanders,  but  aspires 
to  higher  offices  and  more  noble  heads. 

At  this  point  in  my  career  one  incident  stands 
out  with  vivid  clearness.  This  was  our  first  bath 
since  coming  to  the  firing-line.  Outwardly  we 
were  as  clean  and  polished  as  any  diplomat,  for 
such  are  the  rules  and  regulations  of  the  British 
army.  They  say  that  if  you  peel  away  but  a  gen- 
eration from  a  Goorkha,  you  will  have  the  original 
stone-age  man.  I  will  stand  sponsor  for  the  state- 
ment that  if  you  peel  away  the  clothing  of  a  sol- 
dier who  has  been  in  the  trenches  for  six  weeks, 
you  will  find  ample  proof  of  the  .old  adage  that 
all  is  not  gold  that  glitters.  Your  Tommy's  face 
will  shine  like  Shakespeare's  school-boy;  above 
the  collar  he  will  be  as  scrupulously  clean  as  the 
kitchen  floor  of  a  Holland  hausfrau;  but  below 
that  collar's  dead-line — or  shall  I  call  it  dirt-line? 
— the  description  can  best  be  left  unsung.  What 
you  do  not  know  cannot  hurt  you. 

You  can  imagine  that  a  bath  was  something  of 
an  event.  It  stands  out  much  more  clearly  in  my 
mind  than  does  many  a  trench  raid.  We  bathed 
in  groups  of  one  battalion  every  few  minutes. 


SNIPING  143 

There  was  none  of  your  lazy  Sunday-morning 
bathing.  We  entered  a  long  room  where  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  showers,  each  in  a  little  private  stall, 
were  spouting  steam  and  profanity.  At  a  whistle 
from  the  end  of  the  room  the  showers  cast  forth 
twenty-five  or  thirty  fairly  presentable  Tommies, 
and  another  twenty-five  or  thirty  men  took  their 
places.  The  contrast  in  color  between  those  en- 
tering and  those  leaving  was  marked. 

Three  minutes  was  the  time  allowed  for  bath- 
ing. The  water  started  off  hot.  After  about  a 
minute  and  a  half  it  cooled.  When  it  became  cold 
you  knew  you  had  about  fifteen  seconds  remain- 
ing for  your  ablutions. 

Three  minutes  is  mighty  scant  time  in  which 
to  remove  the  accumulated  filth  of  weeks.  Con- 
stant practice  in  the  art  of  bathing  by  order  did 
not  enable  me  to  complete  my  toilet  in  the  proper 
manner.  I  always  had  to  finish  it  in  the  drying 
room,  where  we  were  handed  a  towel  which  also 
performed  the  offices  of  a  scrub  brush. 

By  this  time  in  its  military  career  our  regiment 
had  saddled  itself  with  a  reputation.  We  had 
been  particularly  successful  in  many  minor  un- 
dertakings, and  had  become  known  as  good  men 
to  call  upon  when  something  had  to  be  done  and 
done  quickly.  Our  officers  invariably  volunteered 
for  all  sorts  of  unwelcome  duties,  and  while  we 


144  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

gloried  somewhat  in  our  reputation,  we  likewise 
found  it  very  irksome.  Hence  it  was  not  with 
great  joy  that  we  received  the  call  to  build  a  road. 

Over  in  your  country  I  believe  they  sometimes 
use  convicts  to  build  roads.  Certainly  no  self- 
respecting  laboring  man  would  stoop  so  low.  But 
when  you  are  in  the  army  you  do  what  you  are 
told  and  consider  yourself  amply  rewarded  if  you 
come  out  alive.  Mere  fatigue  is  nothing  more 
than  an  everyday  occurrence.  Hence  the  build- 
ing of  a  road  called  forth  little  more  than  the  ordi- 
nary amount  of  grumbling. 

Four  hundred  of  us  went  out,  armed  with  picks 
and  shovels,  and  started  digging  about  three  kilo- 
meters outside  of  Bethune,  in  order  to  enable  the 
military  trucks  to  avoid  the  town  and  the  detour 
and  shell-fire  that  it  meant. 

We  had  hardly  set  to  work  when  a  German 
aeroplane  appeared  away  off  in  the  distance — 
about  five  kilometers,  I  should  say.  It  was 
headed  in  our  direction.  When  about  three  kilo- 
meters away,  it  circled  up  to  about  three  thousand 
feet  and  then  swung  in  a  wide  ring  above  our 
heads.  Three  men  were  set  to  watch  it,  for  even 
in  those  days  German  aeroplanes  were  not  the 
most  welcome  visitors  to  an  unarmed  body  of  sol- 
diers. 

Report  of  its  arrival  was  flashed  to  our  aerial 


SNIPING  145 

squadron,  and  two  of  our  doughty  fighters  were 
sent  up  to  meet  it.  The  German  saw  them  com- 
ing and  bored  straight  down  upon  them.  Faintly 
we  could  hear  his  machine-gun  ripping  out  its  song. 
He  missed  and  shot  upward  again.  Our  two 
planes  followed  suit,  and  the  battle  drifted  away 
into  the  distance,  where  the  nationality  of  the 
planes  was  lost.  But  we  could  still  see  them 
gyrating  like  crazy  bugs  before  an  arc-light.  Up 
and  down,  back  and  forth,  they  went.  At  times 
a  head-on  collision  seemed  imminent.  But  at 
last  our  Teuton  friend  volplaned  downward  in  a 
long  arc  that  marked  him  as  either  hit  or  fleeing 
with  all  speed  toward  friendly  quarters. 

Eeturning  to  town,  we  passed  a  house  which 
had  already  become  familiar  to  me  as  the  home  of 
Therese.  Therese  was  a  French  girl  who  was 
living  with  relatives  in  Bethune.  Her  former 
home  had  been  in  Lille,  and  she  had  been  there 
during  the  time  of  the  German  occupation.  I  had 
come  to  know  her  very  well,  and  had  often  called 
there  to  pass  the  time  of  day  and  to  enjoy  some 
of  her  family's  cooking  and  good  cheer.  In  fact, 
I  had  been  taken  in  as  almost  a  member  of  the 
family,  and,  though  my  French  was  extremely 
weak  and  their  English  even  weaker,  we  got  on  in 
jolly  good  fashion. 

As  I  passed  that  evening,  she  and  her  relatives 


146  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

were  sitting  out  in  front  of  their  house  enjoying 
the  cool  of  coming  night,  so  I  called  out  a  rather 
broken  invitation  to  take  a  walk.  To  this  she 
heartily  assented.  It  was  during  this  walk  that 
she  told  me  some  of  her  first-hand  experiences  dur- 
ing the  German  occupation  of  Lille. 

It  seems  that  Therese  had  been  living  with  her 
aged  grandparents,  her  father  and  mother,  and 
a  younger  brother  and  sister.  The  Germans '  first 
move,  on  entering  Lille,  had  been  to  ransack  the 
entire  town.  Her  grandfather,  an  old  warrior 
and  a  fighter  still,  despite  his  years,  had  come 
upon  one  of  his  friends  being  brutally  beaten  by 
a  German  officer  in  the  street.  Therese  told  me 
that  her  grandfather  was  not  familiar  with  the 
German  order  concerning  fire-arms,  and  had  im- 
mediately rushed  into  his  home  and  taken  a  pot- 
shot at  the  officer  from  the  window.  The  sound 
of  the  shot  brought  a  horde  of  Germans  from  all 
directions,  and  the  entire  household  was  hauled 
into  the  street  for  "examination,"  as  the  officer 
in  charge  was  pleased  to  call  it. 

This  "examination"  consisted  of  brutally  mal- 
treating the  womenfolk  and  lining  the  menfolk  of 
the  household  up  before  them  for  immediate  de- 
spatch by  a  firing-squad.  The  latter  was  made  up 
of  practically  the  entire  company  of  Germans,  all 


SNIPING  147 

of  whom  appeared  insanely  anxious  to  prove  their 
marksmanship  at  twenty  yards. 

The  women  were  then  brought  to  headquarters. 
Therese 's  mother  and  grandmother  were  sent  in 
opposite  directions,  and  Therese  was  detained. 
Fortunately  she  had  not  been  put  under  heavy 
guard,  and  had  been  able  to  procure  a  peasant 
boy's  outfit  of  clothing.  This  she  donned  and, 
traveling  by  night,  managed  to  pierce  the  Ger- 
man lines  and  to  reach  our  own  lines  in  safety, 
as  an  itinerant  peddler. 

This  much  Therese  told  me  of  her  own  experi- 
ences. She  said  little  of  the  actions  of  the  Ger- 
mans toward  herself,  though  from  that  little  one 
could  gather  much.  The  Teutons  had  ransacked 
every  home  in  Lille,  and  of  those  who  stayed,  many 
were  shot  for  imaginary  or  entirely  fictitious 
causes.  Everything  in  the  city  had  been  carried 
away.  Pictures  fastened  to  the  walls  were 
slashed  so  as  to  utterly  destroy  their  value. 
Every  bit  of  iron,  steel,  copper,  and  lead  had  dis- 
appeared. All  families  had  been  utterly  separ- 
ated. The  men  had  been  sent  away  in  one  di- 
rection and  the  women  in  another. 

I  say  that  the  women  were  sent  away.  The 
women  were  not  all  sent  away.  As  fast  as  the 
Germans  could  operate,  the  men  of  Lille  were 


148  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

taken  to  one  end  of  the  town  and  all  the  women 
to  the  other.  Here  the  younger  women  were 
separated  from  the  older,  and  the  older  women 
were  sent  away  to  goodness  knows  where.  The 
younger  women  were  taken  before  the  command- 
ing officer.  I  need  not  carry  the  story  further. 
Enough  has  already  been  written  about  German 
methods.  Let  me  merely  add  that  little  bits  which 
I  pieced  together  from  Therese's  story  added  a 
mighty  weight  to  all  that  now  rings  in  our  ears 
as  samples  of  German  kultur. 

In  speaking  of  the  Germans'  treatment  of  the 
womenfolk,  Therese  seldom  spoke  of  the  private 
German  soldier.  It  was  usually  the  officers.  In 
recording  this,  however,  I  do  not  feel  that  I  hang 
any  laurels  on  the  virtue  of  the  Teuton  private. 
He  never  had  a  chance  at  the  womenfolk.  Ger- 
man orders  are,  "officers  first." 

Before  the  war  I  have  heard  of  the  unspeak- 
able boorishncss  of  the  German  officer.  I  know 
enough  of  the  German  officer's  attitude  toward 
womenfolk  in  peace-time  to  imagine  what  his  atti- 
tude would  be  toward  hostile,  defenseless  women 
in  war-time.  But  my  imagination  has  proven  a 
weak  and  effeminate  thing.  Therese's  tale  of 
German  tortures,  reinforced  by  other  and  equally 
authoritative  tales  that  I  heard,  allows  me  to 
know  beyond  peradventure  of  a  doubt  that  the 


SNIPING  149 

German  creed  to-day  reads,  "Kill,  but  enjoy  even 
as  you  kill.'* 

That  evening  reinforced  our  friendship,  and  her 
recitation  of  the  troubles  she  had  undergone 
brought  Therese  closer  to  me.  We  agreed  to  ex- 
change lessons  in  French  and  English.  These 
had  progressed  only  a  little  way,  however,  when 
we  were  again  ordered  away,  and,  as  a  parting 
jest,  I  asked  her  to  write  to  my  mother,  saying 
that  I  did  not  have  the  opportunity  to  write  her 
before  leaving.  Therese  took  my  jest  in  earnest, 
however,  and  my  mother  treasures  to-day  a  four- 
page  letter  from  this  little  French  girl  who  had 
been  through  the  horrors  of  Lille,  but  still  had 
heart  enough  to  write  a  British  Tommy's  mother 
that  he  was  well  and  happy,  and,  like  all  the  Eng- 
lish, was  doing  "his  bit." 

There  is  one  phase  of  "doing  your  bit"  of  which 
you  hear  but  little.  That  is  the  "Blue  Funk,"  or 
"Firing  Squad."  In  the  armies  of  your  laboring 
men  the  man  who  does  not  do  his  earnest  best  is 
discharged.  The  man  who  disobeys  orders  is  sub- 
ject to  nothing  worse  than  a  reprimand.  But 
"over  there,"  as  you  please  to  call  it,  we  get  no 
reprimand,  and  the  man  who  does  not  do  his  earn- 
est best  meets  nothing  weaker  than  a  court-mar- 
tial. 

Our  own  regiment  never  found  it  necessary  to 


150  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

have  a  "Blue  Funk  Squad."  Plainly,  the  duty 
of  such  a  squad  is  to  execute  those  guilty  of  in- 
subordination or  cowardice.  Cowardice  is  the 
commonest  of  trench  troubles.  To  feel  cowardice 
is  no  crime,  but  to  show  cowardice  is  punishable 
by  death.  A  good  friend  of  mine,  an  officer,  told 
me  that  all  the  firing  squads  in  kingdom  come 
could  not  have  held  him  in  the  front  line  during 
a  heavy  shelling.  He  said  that  only  the  fear  of 
losing  the  respect  of  his  men  kept  him  with  them. 
This  statement  from  an  officer  who  is  now  dec- 
orated for  bravery  will  give  you  some  indication 
of  the  fear  that  very  naturally  prevails  in  the 
front-line  trenches  during  an  attack. 

Fear  of  the  firing  squad,  in  all  probability,  keeps 
few  men  from  showing  cowardice.  I  honestly  be- 
lieve that  the  honor  of  the  regiment  and  the  fear 
of  what  other  men  will  think  holds  more  men  to 
their  duty  in  the  face  of  danger  than  does  any 
firing  squad  in  Flanders.  Oftentimes  I  will 
vouch  for  the  fact  that  a  sudden  and  sure  death 
is  far  preferable  to  the  hellish  waiting.  I  believe 
that  before  Lille  some  of  us  would  have  run  back, 
firing  squad  or  no,  had  not  the  honor  of  the  regi- 
ment been  at  stake.  It  is  the  honor  of  the  regi- 
ment, reinforced  by  stern  discipline,  which  holds 
you  in  your  place. 

Once  more  let  me  emphasize  to  all  American 


SNIPING  151 

troops  the  need  for  rigid  obedience  to  discipline. 
You  may  not  receive  war's  real  discipline  while 
training  in  America,  or  even  while  training  in 
France,  but  when  you  get  up  into  the  front  line 
discipline  must  be  observed. 

It  is  one  of  the  million  things  which  will  win 
the  war  for  democracy.  It  is  so  rigidly  inforced 
among  English  troops  that  a  man  who  does  not 
return  on  time  from  leave  in  London  is  shot  after 
only  a  very  formal  court-martial.  Cowardice 
gives  no  opportunity  to  plead  an  alibi.  Lateness 
from  leave  permits  you  to  plead  extenuating  cir- 
cumstances. But  believe  me,  my  friend,  little 
short  of  drugging  or  a  blackjack  on  the  head  in 
a  dark  alley  will  prove  sufficient  alibi  for  a  stern 
military  court-martial. 

Therefore  I  say,  respect  your  officers,  respect 
them  not  only  as  men,  but  as  the  representatives 
of  that  central  and  unifying  intelligence  by  which 
alone  this  war  will  be  won. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  BETWEEN  THE  LINES "SEND  US 

MORE  AMMUNITION" — THE  SPY  AT  HEADQUAR- 
TERS 


FROM  Bethune  we  were  again  sent  up  to  the 
firing-line  twelve  kilometers  distant.  On  the 
way,  as  we  neared  the  front,  we  encountered  dug- 
outs filled  with  reserve  soldiery.  This  was  a  new 
system  recently  adopted  by  the  British,  and  dis- 
placed the  old  method  of  quartering  reserves  far 
behind  the  line.  It  made  them  more  mobile  and 
enabled  a  given  sector  to  be  handled  by  fewer 
troops. 

No  sooner  had  we  reached  the  front-line  trench 
than  word  was  passed  to  us  to  be  on  the  lookout 
for  a  German  machine-gun  emplacement  which 
had  been  so  carefully  hidden  by  the  Germans  that 
it  had  clicked  its  toll  of  death  for  over  ten  days 
without  being  located. 

It  fell  to  the  lot  of  McKenzie  and  myself  that 
evening  to  stand  watch  at  a  listening-post  about 
fifty  yards  from  the  German  front  line.  It  was 
a  peculiarly  nasty  evening;  a  fine  rain  pelted  down, 

152 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  153 

and  a  cold  breeze  that  belonged  more  in  March 
than  in  June  chilled  one  to  the  marrow.  Hardly 
had  we  taken  our  places  when  word  reached  us 
that  a  bombing-party  of  Germans  might  be  ex- 
pected at  any  moment.  This  same  bombing-party 
had  made  itself  thoroughly  obnoxious  for  three 
nights  running,  and  it  was  to  be  expected  that  it 
would  continue  its  depredations  until  interrupted 
by  the  sudden  demise  of  its  members. 

With  this  reassuring  news  to  cheer  us  on,  we 
took  our  places  on  the  fire-step.  At  eleven  o  'clock 
I  went  on  duty.  As  is  the  custom,  I  came  off  duty 
one  hour  later  and  stretched  myself  out  at  the 
bottom  of  the  dugout,  while  McKenzie  stood 
watch. 

At  12:30  a  sergeant  came  running  out  to  the 
sap-head.  He  asked  us  if  we  had  heard  any  sus- 
picious noises.  Upon  receiving  a  negative  reply, 
he  explained  that  our  machine-gun  emplacement, 
which  commanded  a  neighboring  road,  had  been 
entirely  wiped  out  by  the  German  bombing-party 
but  three  minutes  before.  Hardly  were  the  words 
out  of  his  mouth  when  our  entire  line  burst  forth 
into  a  blaze  of  flares  and  musketry,  and,  clearly 
outlined  in  the  middle  of  no-man's-land,  we  could 
see  the  German  party  scurrying  across,  like  rats 
in  an  open  field. 

Immediately  an  enfilading  fire  from  our  ma- 


154  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

chine-guns  reached  out  for  them.  It  wavered  for 
a  moment  to  their  right,  and  then  it  swept  across 
them,  clung  to  them,  and  another  German  bomb- 
ing-party was  wiped  out. 

But  still  the  obnoxious  Teuton  machine-gun  em- 
placement remained  a  mystery,  and  it  became  the 
duty  of  six  of  us,  under  the  command  of  an  offi- 
cer, to  go  out  the  following  evening  and  put  a 
quietus  upon  this  obstreperous  gun. 

We  went  about  ten  o'clock,  armed  only  with 
trench-knives  and  revolvers.  Between  us  was 
stretched  a  rope,  much  after  the  fashion  of  Alpine 
climbers.  The  usual  code  of  signals  had  been 
arranged  so  that  the  lieutenant  in  front  could  in- 
form any  or  all  of  us  of  his  intentions.  It  was 
our  little  job  to  locate  the  exact  position  of  the 
machine-gun  emplacement.  It  had  already  been 
partially  located,  but  to  make  doubly  sure  we  were 
to  send  up  a  flare  at  the  precise  point  in  the  Ger- 
man line  where  this  machine-gun  held  forth. 

It  is  a  comparatively  simple  and  safe  matter, 
barring  accidents,  to  merely  investigate  the  op- 
posing front  line,  but  to  send  up  a  flare  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  opposing  line  is  to  beard  the 
lion  in  his  den.  Yet  this  was  part  and  parcel  of 
our  duty,  and  we  went  at  it  morally  certain  that 
few,  if  any,  of  us  would  return  to  our  own  lines. 
Three  of  the  boys  had  bombs,  and  before  leav- 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  155 

ing  we  all  wrote  letters  home  and  made  our  last 
will  and  testament.  These  we  left  in  charge  of 
our  comrades,  for  it  looked  like  certain  death. 

Out  to  the  nearest  sap-head  we  went.  This  was 
about  six  hundred  yards  from  our  approximate 
objective.  With  final  instructions  to  the  men  in 
the  sap-head,  we  set  out.  No-man's-land  at  this 
point  was  as  bare  as  the  top  of  a  billiard-table, 
except  here  and  there  where  a  shell-hole  punctu- 
ated the  landscape  or  a  bit  of  stubble  remained, 
cut  down  close  to  the  ground  by  the  machine-gun- 
fire of  the  opposing  lines. 

What  few  flares  there  were  gave  but  little  light, 
owing  to  the  high  wind  and  the  misty,  driving  rain. 
Half  way  across  there  came  a  tremendous  tug  at 
the  rope,  and  we  all  fell  flat  on  our  faces.  Not 
twenty  yards  away,  against  the  horizon,  we  could 
see  the  outlines  of  a  German  working-party.  It 
was  investigating  our  lines,  repairing  barbed  wire, 
or  doing  some  other  duty  of  a  sort  peculiar  to  no- 
man's-land. 

Flat  on  our  faces  we  remained  for  the  better 
part  of  ten  minutes,  until  it  was  accurately  de- 
termined that  the  German  working-party  had  re- 
tired to  its  own  trenches.  Then,  with  infinite 
pains,  we  worked  our  way  up,  half -crawling,  half- 
standing,  to  the  very  front  of  the  German  barbed 
wire.  We  could  hear  the  Teutons  talking  and 


156  " LADIES  FEOM  HELL" 

laughing,  but  the  outlines  of  their  machine-gun 
emplacement  remained  hidden. 

Up  and  down  in  front  of  the  Teuton  line  we 
crawled,  watching  for  any  break  in  the  parapet 
or  any  change  of  coloring  which  might  disclose  the 
object  of  our  search.  At  last  three  jerks  from 
our  officer  brought  us  to  attention,  and  in  response 
to  his  code  directions  we  dimly  discerned  the 
vague  outlines  of  an  emplacement,  carefully  hid- 
den by  debris  and  withered  stubble. 

According  to  previously  arranged  plans,  our 
bombers  took  up  a  position  about  ten  yards  to  the 
right  and  left  of  the  emplacement.  Our  officer 
then  gave  a  signal,  and  our  flare  shot  up  into  the 
night  but  a  scant  fifteen  yards  from  the  German 
front-line  trench. 

You  may  wonder  why  it  was  necessary  to  set 
off  the  flare  so  close  to  the  Hun  stronghold.  It 
was  only  by  so  doing  that  the  lookouts  in  our  sap- 
head  could  obtain  the  angle  of  fire  necessary  to 
reach  the  suspected  machine-gun.  Had  we  gone 
back  and  depended  only  upon  our  sense  of  direc- 
tion for  the  location  of  this  emplacement,  it  would 
have  remained  a  mystery  indefinitely.  But  by 
drawing  a  sight  from  the  listening-post  on  the 
right  and  left,  we  were  enabled  to  accurately  mark 
its  position  and  to  wipe  it  out  on  the  following 
day. 


THE  FAEM-HOUSE  157 

But  to  return  to  the  moment  in  which  the  flare 
hissed  its  way  up  through  the  driving  rain.  It 
had  hardly  left  the  revolver  of  the  officer  in 
charge,  when  the  bombers  hurled  their  charges 
full  into  the  German  trench  and  the  whole  line, 
both  Teuton  and  British,  sprang  to  its  feet  in  an 
ecstasy  of  nerves.  No-man's-land  swam  in  a 
ghostly,  yellow  light.  Machine-guns  on  both  sides 
began  to  sing  their  lay,  and  over  a  thousand  yards 
along  the  front  a  miniature  battle  immediately 
sprang  into  being. 

It  was  through  this  cross-fire  that  we  of  the 
observation  party  were  expected  to  make  our  re- 
turn. By  taking  advantage  of  every  scratch  and 
shell-hole  upon  the  surface  of  the  ground,  five  of 
the  six  of  us  managed  to  drag  ourselves  back  to 
our  sap-head.  Only  one  remained  out  in  no- 
man's-land,  and  the  next  morning  we  saw  him 
there,  still  close  to  the  Teuton  front  line. 

During  this  period  of  my  duty  on  the  front 
line  there  was  little,  if  any,  heavy  firing,  but  con- 
siderable scout-work  was  necessary  as  a  prelimi- 
nary to  an  offensive  at  a  somewhat  later  date. 
The  location  of  the  above  German  machine-gun 
emplacement  was  but  a  small  part  of  the  work  in 
the  preparation  for  a  big  attack.  Before  any  at- 
tack of  importance  is  undertaken  it  is  necessary 
to  know  the  opposing  line  as  well  as  the  Teuton 


158  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

himself  does.  Each  machine-gun,  each  field- 
piece,  each  trench-mortar  and  even  each  sap-head 
must  be  carefully  plotted  and  marked. 

One  of  the  many  strategic  points  of  this  sector 
was  an  old  farm-house  lying  midway  between  the 
German  and  the  British  line.  The  opposing 
trenches  were  approximately  eight  hundred  yards 
apart,  and  between  them,  a  mere  wreck,  stood 
this  old  shambles  of  a  house.  One  hundred  and 
fifty  yards  from  its  doorway,  in  the  direction  of 
our  trenches,  stood  a  pump.  Here  we  had  been 
accustomed  to  obtain  some  of  the  most  delicious 
well-water  that  I  have  ever  tasted,  and  it  had 
become  one  of  the  duties  of  the  ration-party  to 
secure  a  liberal  quantity  from  this  well,  even 
though  it  was  done  at  a  considerable  risk  to  them- 
selves. 

The  Germans,  however,  early  discovered  our 
fondness  for  the  well,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
they  had  thoroughly  poisoned  it  and  spoiled  it 
for  several  generations  to  come.  Not  content  with 
this,  however,  they  had  a  way  of  sneaking  into 
the  farm-house  with  snipers  and  a  portable  ma- 
chine-gun, and  from  this  point  would  direct  a 
nasty  fire  up  and  down  our  sector  of  the  line. 

Occasionally  we  would  return  the  compliment, 
but  as  we  knew  nothing  of  the  casualties  caused 
by  our  own  snipers  and  knew  only  what  the  Ger- 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  159 

mans  had  done  to  us  from  the  same  location,  it 
was  determined  that  the  next  German  party  to 
take  possession  of  this  house  would  get  its  just 
deserts. 

We  had  not  long  to  wait.  That  very  evening, 
just  at  dusk,  the  song  of  a  German  machine-gun 
piped  out  from  the  second-story  window  of  the 
house.  A  call  went  back  to  our  artillery  to  be- 
stow a  few  pieces  of  high  explosive  in  the  gen- 
eral direction  of  the  farm-house.  But  the  reply 
was  that  they  had  no  ammunition  to  waste  on 
such  small  trifles.  This  was  early  in  the  war, 
when  the  Germans  were  easily  throwing  two  shells 
to  our  one,  and  even  at  that  we  were  carefully 
husbanding  our  scant  supply. 

Since  the  artillery  refused  to  aid  us,  it  became 
our  pleasure  to  do  the  job  alone.  Twelve  of  us 
volunteered  for  this  service.  I  was  one  of  the 
twelve.  We  waited  until  dark,  and  then  set  out 
across  the  four  hundred  yards  that  separated  us 
from  the  house. 

In  the  meantime  the  Germans  had  been  ex- 
tremely quiet,  and  we  began  to  suspect  that  they 
had  escaped  us.  But  they  were  only  biding  their 
time. 

As  we  reached  the  well  they  evidently  sighted 
us,  or  sighted  a  suspicious  movement,  and  the 
machine-gun  spat  at  us  from  its  usual  window 


160  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

just  above  the  doorway.  There  was  nothing  to 
do  but  fall  flat  and  scuttle  up  to  the  house  as  best 
we  could.  When  we  came  within  fifty  yards  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  fact  that  the  Germans  had 
spotted  us.  Both  the  machine-gun  and  the  snipers 
were  doing  their  best  to  beat  us  in  our  race  for 
the  house.  Our  officer  shouted  out  the  command : 
"Six  to  the  back;  and  six  to  the  front!"  I  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  the  six  who  went  to  the  front. 

We  found  the  door  barricaded,  and  above  us 
was  the  machine-gun  and  four  very  accurate  and 
skilful  snipers.  One  by  one  the  boys  about  me 
slipped  down  to  their  knees,  victims  of  the  fire 
from  the  upper  window.  I  emptied  the  chambers 
of  my  revolver  without  any  apparent  effect,  and 
then  found  myself  alone,  sheltered  only  by  the 
scanty  protection  of  the  portal  of  the  door.  I 
silently  thanked  a  hard-working  ancestry  who  had 
made  me  as  thin  as  the  proverbial  rail.  A  fat 
man  would  have  found  my  position  about  as  much 
protection  as  a  dollar  umbrella. 

Here  I  stood  for  a  minute  or  two,  with  five  of 
my  comrades  at  my  feet.  Every  one  of  them 
had  been  victims  of  the  snipers'  bullets.  Then 
I  heard  the  racket  of  the  party  that  had  gone  to 
the  rear.  Trusting  to  sheer  luck  and  to  the  fact 
that  the  same  noise  would  be  heard  by  the  Ger- 
mans, who  would  then  be  drawn  from  the  window, 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  161 

I  made  a  run  for  it.  Thus  I  managed  to  get 
around  the  corner  of  the  house  without  attracting 
the  Teuton  fire. 

At  the  back  I  found  the  boys  just  breaking  into 
the  house.  Up  the  stairs  the  seven  of  us  rushed 
as  one  man.  The  Germans  were  barricading  the 
door  of  the  room,  but  the  scanty  furniture  that 
remained  in  the  house  afforded  little  material  for 
their  purpose.  Presently  we  burst  into  their  quar- 
ters, after  only  trifling  work  with  an  old  chair 
which  served  us  as  an  improvised,  but  effective, 
battering-ram. 

Instead  of  being  greeted  by  a  volley  of  shots, 
as  we  had  expected,  we  found  five  Germans  on 
their  knees,  with  hands  uplifted,  and  the  words 
"Kamerad!  Kamerad!  Me rcy!"  spouting  from 
their  lips  like  some  well-rehearsed  chorus. 

It  was  the  same  old  piffle  that  you  hear  from 
every  German  when  you  have  him  cornered,  and 
it  met  with  a  cold  reception  at  our  hands.  Our 
officer  took  the  floor  and  replied: 

' '  Little  enough  mercy  you  showed  us  a  few 
weeks  ago  down  by  Lille!  You  had  plenty  of 
time  to  cry  for  mercy  when  we  were  coming  across 
that  last  five  yards.  When  mercy  is  yours  to 
give,  you  never  give  it.  You  cut  my  pal's  throat 
like  some  porker;  you  blinded  our  lieutenant! 
Mercy?  Hell!" 


162  ''LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

With  that  the  bayonets  in  our  hands  got  busy, 
and  there  were  five  less  Germans  to  wear  the 
Iron  Cross  that  night. 

I  do  not  believe  I  am  telling  anything  amiss 
when  I  say  that  since  the  battle  for  Lille  we  Scot- 
tish have  taken  few,  if  any,  prisoners.  You  will 
remember  how  the  Black  Watch  went  over  the  top 
and  at  the  German  trenches.  You  will  remember 
how  some  thirty  of  them  reached  the  Teuton  lines, 
and  how  they  returned,  stripped  of  all  accoutre- 
ments, to  be  shot  down  like  rats.  With  such  a 
picture  ever  before  us,  do  you  wonder  that  the 
Scottish  do  not  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  take  Ger- 
man prisoners?  Do  you  blame  us  men,  who  saw 
in  those  five  Germans  an  opportunity  to  demon- 
strate that  kultur  can  work  both  ways?  There 
are  those  who  prate  loudly  of  turning  the  other 
cheek.  I  suspect,  however,  that  these  same 
pacifists,  were  the  Germans  entrenched  at  Sche- 
nectady  or  Buffalo,  would  find  scant  chance  to 
turn  the  other  cheek.  Give  a  German  an  inch, 
and  he  will  take  a  mile.  The  only  cure  for  the 
German  atrocity  is  to  fight  fire  with  fire.  The 
man  who  can  see  his  own  pal  and  comrade  shot 
down  in  cold  blood,  as  we  had  seen  the  Germans 
shoot  down  our  Black  Watch,  is  not  a  man,  if  he 
can  refrain  and  hold  back  his  hand  from  avenging 
such  slaughter. 


THE  FAEM-HOUSE  163 

From  this  work  we  went  back  to  Vermelles 
again,  to  our  rest-billets.  Vermelles  at  this  time 
was  known  to  the  Germans  as  one  of  our  main 
arteries,  and  hence  it  was  subject  to  a  constant 
shelling  which  waxed  intense  at  specified  hours 
of  the  day. 

Running  along  beside  our  billet  was  an  old 
trench  which  had  seen  service  in  the  early  days. 
It  ran  almost  without  interruption  to  the  very 
door  of  an  estaminet  about  half  a  mile  distant. 
This  trench  afforded  ideal  protection  to  the  hun- 
gry soldier,  except  for  a  scant  one  hundred  and 
fifty  yards  of  its  length,  where  it  crossed  a  meadow 
and  became  merely  a  hollow  depression  in  the  sur- 
face of  the  ground.  The  Germans  had  this  spot 
carefully  marked  and  sighted,  and  to  cross  it  was 
to  flirt  with  death  with  a  vengeance.  Neverthe- 
less the  lure  of  the  estaminet  drew  our  whole  com- 
pany across  this  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  once 
or  twice  or  even  three  times  a  day,  when  oppor- 
tunity and  the  O.  C.  permitted.  Of  course  the 
practice  was  frowned  upon,  although  no  formal 
order  had  been  given  forbidding  us  to  go. 

One  afternoon,  while  off  duty,  with  some  dozen 
or  more  of  my  fellows  I  broke  the  unwritten  law 
and  made  a  dash  across  the  open  ground  without 
fatalities.  Reaching  the  estaminet  in  safety,  we 
sat  down  on  its  little  porch.  We  were  sipping  our 


164  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

grenadine  when  the  usual  German  "strafing"  of 
Vermelles  began. 

The  bombardment  of  a  town  is  one  of  the  most 
spectacular  sights.  It  is  beautiful  in  a  terrible 
way,  if  observed  from  a  generous  distance.  From 
our  refuge  we  could  watch  it  without  fear  of  be- 
coming active  participants  in  the  destruction. 

You  would  hear  a  German  gun  boom,  there 
would  be  a  scream  overhead,  and  then,  after  a 
pause,  a  terrific  explosion,  just  close  enough  to 
make  it  interesting  and  to  observe  the  effect  ac- 
curately. As  each  shell  hit — the  Germans  were 
using  high  explosives  liberally  that  day — a  geyser 
of  dirt  and  red  brick-dust  shot  up  into  the  air,  like 
some  tremendous  oil-gusher.  So  violent  was  the 
shelling  that  afternoon  that  the  entire  town  of 
Vermelles  seemed  covered  by  a  haze  of  black  and 
red.  Interspersed  with  the  fumes  and  dust,  oc- 
casional little  cotton-puffs  of  shrapnel  appeared. 
At  intervals  a  house  would  slide  out  of  sight,  the 
victim  of  concussion.  Through  binoculars  we 
could  see  whole  dwellings  lifted  into  the  air,  as 
if  they  had  been  toys,  to  be  cast  down  as  mere 
piles  of  smoking  ruins. 

The  German  shelling  lasted  for  about  an  hour 
without  drawing  fire  from  our  artillery.  At  its 
conclusion,  however,  our  observation  balloon,  in 
conjunction  with  our  aeroplanes,  had  located  and 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  165 

sighted  a  German  brewery  considerably  behind 
their  lines.  In  the  cupola  of  this  brewery  the 
Teutons  had  installed  a  machine-gun  which  had 
been  traversing  up  and  down  our  lines  for  two 
or  three  days. 

No  sooner  did  we  sight  this  brewery  than  an 
urgent  plea  went  forth  to  our  artillery  to  direct 
their  efforts  upon  it,  and  particularly  upon  the 
waspish  occupant  of  the  cupola.  Word  came  back 
that  they  could  afford  but  five  shells.  An  aero- 
plane went  up  to  check  the  observation  and  to 
make  doubly  sure  of  the  accuracy  of  our  aim. 
The  first  shell  fell  short,  the  second  crept  up  just 
a  trifle,  and  the  third  hit  the  cupola  about  ten 
feet  below  its  base  and  exploded.  Cupola,  Ger- 
mans, and  machine-gun  jumped  into  the  air,  an 
indiscriminate  mass  of  dust  and  smoke. 

To  incapacitate  a  German  machine-gun  is  an 
insult;  to  incapacitate  a  German  machine-gun  in 
a  brewery  is  a  triple  insult.  Immediately  the 
wrath  of  the  Germans  was  reawakened,  and  for 
two  hours  Vermelles  and  all  the  intervening  ter- 
ritory bore  up  under  a  tremendous  shelling  from 
practically  every  field-gun  on  the  Teuton  front. 
Our  own  guns  were  silent,  of  necessity,  a  neces- 
sity created  partly  from  fear  of  being  located  and 
partly  because  of  their  scant  supply  of  ammuni- 
tion. 


166  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

And  right  here  let  me  put  in  a  plea  for  ammuni- 
tion. 

You  workers  in  the  shops  and  factories,  how 
little  do  you  realize  the  intense  need  of  the  front 
line!  We  boys  out  here  work,  yes,  we  slave,  for 
twenty-four  hours  a  day,  Sundays  and  holidays, 
rain  or  shine.  You  in  your  comfortable  homes, 
with  all  the  conveniences  and  luxuries  of  modern 
city  life,  just  remember  us  out  here  and  give  us 
all  you  Ve  got. 

The  man  who  stays  at  home  to  make  shells  or 
to  make  any  of  the  munitions  of  war,  or,  for  that 
matter,  any  of  the  tools  which  go  to  make  these 
munitions,  is  not  a  "slacker."  We  need  him;  we 
need  hundreds  and  thousands  of  him.  But  the 
man  who  stays  at  home  to  make  munitions  and 
then  takes  every  opportunity  to  lay  off  or  to  cut 
his  time  is  a  "slacker."  He  is  worse  than  a 
"slacker,"  for  not  only  does  he  keep  from  us  the 
fruits  of  his  own  efforts,  but  he  keeps  from  us  the 
fruits  of  another  man's  efforts,  a  man  who  might 
give  us  all  he  had. 

When  we  are  up  on  the  front  line  and  read  news- 
paper accounts  of  munition-workers  striking  or 
complaining,  it  brings  a  smile,  a  wry  smile,  to  our 
lips.  We  can't  help  comparing  your  position  with 
ours.  We  can't  help  thinking  of  the  few  cents 
per  day  that  we  receive  for  giving  everything 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  167 

we  Ve  got,  including  our  lives,  perhaps.  We  can 't 
help  comparing  our  offering  with  the  security,  the 
peace,  and  the  comfort  which  you  receive  in  re- 
turn for  your  skill  and  handicraft.  If  every  mu- 
nition-worker, if  every  worker  on  tools  or  acces- 
sories that  go  to  make  up  munitions  could  only 
spend  a  short  half -hour  in  a  front-line  trench,  there 
would  be  little  cause  for  the  cry  that  echoes  back 
from  Flanders : 

"Send  us  shells,  and  shells,  and  more  shells !" 

I  remember  hearing  the  story  of  a  visit  of  mu- 
nition-workers to  the  front-line  trench.  It  will 
tend  to  prove  my  statement. 

Word  was  passed  up  the  line  that  a  deputation 
from  the  English  Munition- Workers  was  coming 
to  see  if  we  actually  needed  more  shells.  Those 
boys  back  home  evidently  did  n  't  care  to  take  our 
word  for  it.  They  knew  that  they  were  making 
hundreds,  yes,  thousands,  of  shells  every  day,  and 
it  probably  appeared  to  them  as  the  height  of 
waste  that  we  could  use  them  all  and  still  be  de- 
manding more. 

When  word  reached  us  that  their  committee  was 
about  to  visit  us,  a  gurgle  of  anticipation  ran  down 
the  trench,  for  here  indeed  was  an  opportunity  to 
demonstrate  the  horrors  of  war  to  those  most  in 
need  of  a  demonstration. 

Our  officer,  although  he  said  little,  managed  to 


168  "LADIES  FKOM  HELL" 

egg  us  on  in  our  plans  for  deviltry,  and  he  went 
back  to  meet  the  deputation  of  munition-workers 
with  a  sardonic  smile  on  his  face. 

They  stepped  out  of  a  staff  automobile,  wearing 
Prince  Albert  coats  and  tall  silk  hats.  Unques- 
tionably they  were  a  stunning  spectacle,  a  striking 
contrast,  incidentally,  to  the  grim  khaki  uniform 
seen  everywhere  along  the  front. 

Our  commanding  officer,  instead  of  leading  them 
through  the  usual  communication-trenches,  which 
were  only  about  ankle-deep  in  mud,  chose  to  lead 
them  through  a  main  drain-trench.  A  main  drain- 
trench  is  somewhat  similar  to  an  intercepting 
sewer.  It  is  designed  to  carry  off  the  mud  and 
water  from  some  several  hundred  yards  of  trench. 
This  particular  drain-trench  happened  to  be 
waist-deep  in  slimy  silt.  Three  feet  of  this  ob- 
noxious mud  was  the  introduction  of  our  diplo- 
mats from  London  to  the  horrors  and  inconven- 
iences of  war. 

When  word  reached  us  that  they  were  in  our 
midst,  our  artillery,  rising  to  the  occasion,  sent  a 
salvo  of  fire  over  into  the  German  lines.  Never 
before  had  this  failed  to  bring  back  a  triple  dose 
of  German  steel,  but  to-day,  for  some  unaccount- 
able reason,  no  such  reply  came.  The  artillery 
tried  its  luck  once  more,  and  spent  a  dozen  more 
of  its  precious  shells,  but  still  no  reply  came  back. 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  169 

The  quiet  became  embarrassing.  Not  a  ma- 
chine-gun spoke ;  not  a  sniper's  rifle  cracked  across 
at  us.  Something  had  to  be  done,  for  the  situa- 
tion was  growing  desperate. 

A  non-commissioned  officer  had  an  inspiration, 
— or  perhaps  it  had  all  been  planned  beforehand. 
In  any  event,  dugouts  were  ransacked  and  every 
available  bomb  was  prepared  for  action.  As  the 
munition-workers  slowly  plowed  their  way  down 
the  drain-trench,  every  one  took  an  armful  of 
bombs  and,  with  rifles  pointed  in  air  and  machine- 
guns  directed  anywhere,  began  a  little  battle  of 
their  own,  a  " personally  conducted"  battle,  so  to 
speak. 

Never  was  there  a  more  realistic  duplication 
of  the  front  line  when  a  big  drive  is  on. 

Bear  in  mind  that  the  munition-workers  were 
waist-deep  in  mud.  Their  progress  was  slow,  and 
they  were  hidden  from  our  front  line  and  our  lit- 
tle comedy  by  a  parapet. 

For  about  thirty  minutes  our  boys  staged  one 
of  the  most  complete  and  harmless  battles  of  the 
war.  As  no  word  came  to  desist,  it  became  ap- 
parent that  their  efforts  were  meeting  with  the 
appreciation  of  the  commanding  officer.  They  re- 
doubled them.  Blood-curdling  yells  and  shrieks 
combined  with  the  noise  and  smoke  of  exploding 
grenades,  until  hell  itself  seemed  to  have  been 


170  "LADIES  FEOM  HELL" 

turned  loose  in  this  particular  sector  of  the  trench. 

All  the  Jtime  the  Germans  had  been  serenely 
quiet,  although  a  demonstration  such  as  this  on 
any  other  day  would  have  called  forth  the  se- 
verest reprimand  in  the  shape  of  a  bombardment 
of  an  hour  or  more. 

To  our  left  at  this  time  was  a  bridge,  known 
among  the  boys  as ' '  London  Bridge. ' '  It  spanned 
a  little  stream  which  ran  across  no-man's-land 
between  the  German  and  English  lines.  No  one, 
to  date,  had  been  able  to  cross  this  bridge  alive, 
and  you  can  imagine  our  astonishment  when  we 
saw  our  officer  lead  the  deputation  of  munition- 
workers  to  the  bridge-head  and  invite  them  to 
cross. 

This  seemed  to  be  carrying  the  farce  a  little 
too  far,  but  the  officer  evidently  knew  his  busi- 
ness, for  very  graciously  and  politely  he  invited 
them  to  cross  first,  saying  that  he  would  follow 
them. 

To  our  horror,  they  started  across,  graphic  il- 
lustrations of  the  old  adage  that  "ignorance  is 
bliss."  We  fully  expected  to  see  them  wiped  out 
before  they  had  gone  ten  feet,  but  not  only  did 
they  go  ten  feet,  but  half  way  across,  and  then 
loitered  on  the  edge  and  viewed  the  scenery  there- 
abouts. 

Not  a  shell  or  rifle-shot  came  over  from  the 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  171 

German  lines.  They  were  as  quiet  as  a  tomb. 
After  a  brief  conference  in  the  center  of  the  bridge, 
the  bedraggled,  mud-soaked  deputation  moved  on, 
followed  by  our  commanding  officer  on  the  run. 
He  had  hardly  made  the  crossing  when  a  German 
high-explosive  shell  screamed  after  him.  By 
sheer  luck  it  alighted  only  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  munition-workers.  Three  of  our  boys  gave 
up  their  lives  to  this  shell,  but  never  have  lives 
been  given  to  better  advantage.  The  munition- 
workers  were  tremendously  impressed.  They 
told  our  commanding  officer  that  they  had  long 
desired  to  see  a  tremendous  battle,  and  now  that 
they  had  seen  one  and  had  tasted  the  horrors  of 
war,  they  were  going  to  return  and  do  their  ut- 
most to  double  and  triple  Britain's  output  of 
shells.  They  also  announced  that,  as  they  had  a 
tremendous  amount  to  do  that  day,  they  would 
like  to  hurry  away.  Back  they  went,  firmly  con- 
vinced that  the  front  line  does  need  "shells,  and 
shells,  and  more  shells. ' ' 

You  may  wonder  why  the  Teutons  were  so  quiet. 
We  wondered,  too,  until  a  few  days  later  a  Ger- 
man spy,  serving  in  the  capacity  of  interpreter 
at  our  headquarters,  was  captured  and  given  the 
usual  punishment  meted  out  to  such  gentry.  The 
coming  of  these  ammunition-workers  had  been 
common  talk  about  headquarters  for  days,  and 


172  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

their  contemplated  arrival  had  been  duly  for- 
warded to  the  Germans.  With  their  usual  clever- 
ness, the  latter  had  forecast  the  result  of  absolute 
quiet,  and  so  withheld  their  fire  in  the  hope  that 
the  munition-workers  would  be  influenced  and  that 
as  a  result  our  supply  of  shells  would  diminish, 
rather  than  increase. 

It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  this  same  spy 
had  been  intimately  connected  with  the  failure  of 
our  attack  at  Lille.  He  was  the  man  who  warned 
the  Germans  of  the  impending  assault.  I  have 
since  heard  prisoners  say  that  the  Germans  ex- 
pected us  three  days  before  we  struck.  They  ad- 
mitted this  very  frankly,  when  captured.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  battle  for  Lille  was  planned  for 
a  Thursday.  You  will  remember  that  it  didn't 
take  place  until  the  following  Sunday.  It  had 
been  postponed  at  the  last  minute. 

This  same  spy  had  also  been  connected  with  our 
cordial  hostess  who  had  the  friendly  pup  who 
wore  a  hollow  collar.  It  was  through  the  medium 
of  this  dog  that  he  forwarded  despatches  to  the 
German  lines,  and  it  was  by  his  efforts  that  they 
were  advised  of  the  old  lady's  arrest.  With  his 
arrest  and  confession  many  peculiar  "coinci- 
dents" were  cleared  up  and  vanquished  for  all 
time. 

While  returning  from  watching  the  bombard- 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  173 

ment  of  Vermelles  I  inadvertently  allowed  myself 
to  be  observed  by  a  German  sausage-balloon,  or 
by  some  company  of  snipers,  and  became  the  re- 
cipient of  a  cordial  dose  of  shrapnel  and  musketry 
fire.  I  needed  no  second  invitation  to  hasten  my 
pace,  and  bounded  around  the  corner  of  my  billet, 
only  to  run  head-on  into  my  officer.  He  spun 
round  like  a  top,  and  fell  on  the  back  of  his  neck 
with  a  resounding  thud. 

Springing  to  his  feet  in  a  rage,  he  roundly 
abused  me,  first  as  a  ruffian,  and  then,  as  sober 
judgment  returned  to  him,  as  a  man  who  had  dis- 
obeyed orders  by  going  down  the  communication- 
trench  to  the  estammet.  Partly  as  punishment 
for  disobeying  orders,  and  partly  as  a  handy  vent 
for  his  spleen,  he  sentenced  me  to  an  extra  fatigue. 
This  consisted  in  carrying  wire  and  other  engi- 
neering tools  up  to  the  front  line  to  repair  barbed- 
wire  fences  and  to  aid  in  similar  work. 

My  duties  were  to  begin  immediately.  At  night- 
fall, with  a  company  of  about  fifteen  others  who 
were  loaded  down  with  tools  and  accessories  of 
all  sorts,  I  crawled  along  "Shrine  Road,"  so 
called  because  of  the  little  shrine  set  up  at 
its  intersection  with  the  communication-trench. 
" Shrine  Road"  ran  parallel  to  the  German  lines 
and  was  often  subject  to  heavy  shell-  and  mus- 
ketry-fire. It  so  happened  on  this  evening  that 


174  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

the  moon  was  at  our  back.  We  must  have  been 
neatly  outlined  to  German  snipers,  for  we  had 
hardly  set  out  when  the  entire  surrounding  terri- 
tory jumped  up  in  little  puffs  of  dust,  each  mark- 
ing the  landing-place  of  a  German  bullet. 

We  immediately  took  to  the  ditch  and  dragged 
our  heavy  tools  to  the  communication-trench. 
But,  even  so,  we  were  still  observed  and  were  sub- 
jected to  a  heavy  machine-gun  fire,  which  swept 
across  at  a  nasty  angle  and  bagged  three  of  the 
boys. 

Our  line  at  this  point  bent  back  from  the  Ger- 
man line  in  a  great  half -circle.  Thus  to  command 
it  required  practically  double  the  number  of  men. 
It  was  the  work  of  this  evening  to  straighten  this 
bend  and  so  release  the  men  there  for  service 
elsewhere. 

As  soon  as  darkness  fell  we  went  over  the  top 
from  a  listening-post.  There  were  about  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  of  us  on  the  job.  The  German  lines 
were  about  five  hundred  yards  away.  Five  hun- 
dred yards  is  not  a  great  distance  when  there  is 
nothing  between  you  and  the  German  fire.  But 
fortunately  our  occupation  was  not  discovered, 
and  we  spread  out  across  no-man's-land  in  a 
ragged  line  and  began  to  scratch  ourselves  in  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  bull-pup  seeking  a  long-buried 
bone. 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  175 

At  frequent  intervals  we  would  hear  across  the 
stillness  of  the  night  the  preliminary  hiss  of  a 
flare,  and,  from  a  forest  of  bobbing  heads,  no- 
man's-land  became  as  vacant  as  a  cemetery,  to  all 
outward  appearances,  at  least. 

We  were  barely  well  started  on  our  work,  when 
our  outposts'  screen,  about  thirty  feet  in  front 
of  us,  reported  a  strong  German  working-party 
coming  our  way.  Rifles  were  hurriedly  secured 
and  loaded,  and  available  protection  was  at  a  pre- 
mium. By  good  fortune,  however,  the  working- 
party  drifted  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  before 
the  first  streaks  of  dawn  crept  up  over  the  horizon 
a  neat  trench  had  been  prepared.  The  dirt  had 
been  evenly  distributed  over  several  yards,  so  that 
even  from  the  German  observation-balloon  our 
new  position  was  not  apparent. 

This  shortening  of  the  line  and  all  the  prelim- 
inary work  in  plotting  the  machine-guns  of  the 
opposing  forces  was  merely  the  prelude  to  a  local 
attack.  This  took  place  one  evening  shortly  after 
dusk,  when  five  hundred  yards  of  our  line  went 
over  the  top  and  at  the  Bavarians,  who  com- 
manded the  Teuton  trench  at  this  sector. 

The  Bavarians  have  a  reputation  as  veritable 
fire-eaters.  On  this  occasion  they  did  not  live  up 
to  their  repute.  The  previous  evening  our  scouts 
had  cut  long  lanes  through  the  German  barbed 


176  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

wire,  and,  preceded  by  our  bombers,  we  rushed 
across  no-man's-land  without  preliminary  artil- 
lery preparation,  depending  largely  on  surprise 
for  success. 

The  surprise  was  not  total,  although  it  was 
sufficient  for  the  purpose.  We  were  almost  up  to 
the  German  barbed  wire  before  their  lookouts 
scented  our  approach.  Two  minutes  later  five 
hundred  of  us  jumped  down  as  one  man  into  their 
trench.  Considering  the  suddenness  of  the  at- 
tack, the  Germans  were  fairly  well-prepared.  I 
remember  that  my  leap  carried  me  squarely  upon 
the  back  of  a  stalwart  Teuton,  who  jabbed  upward 
at  me  with  his  bayonet  as  I  plunged  down.  The 
shock  of  my  arrival  on  his  shoulders  diverted  his 
aim  and  likewise  scattered  us  both  over  several 
yards  of  trench.  He  recovered  himself  first. 
With  a  guttural  oath,  he  drew  back  his  rifle — it 
looked  as  big  as  a  telegraph  pole — as  a  prelim- 
inary to  running  me  through. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  regarded  tales  of  one's 
last  moments  as  being  largely  of  a  mythological 
nature.  I  had  heard  that  in  the  last  few  seconds 
of  a  man's  existence  his  entire  life  runs  through 
his  brain  like  a  panorama.  I  now  had  good  cause 
to  repent  of  my  ridicule,  for  every  little  detail  of 
my  twenty-two  summers  flashed  upon  me  in  inti- 
mate retrospect. 


THE  FARM-HOUSE  177 

The  German's  gleaming  blade,  seemingly  with 
infinite  slowness,  crept  down  upon  me.  But  it 
never  reached  me,  thanks  to  my  commanding  offi- 
cer, who  was  just  behind  me.  There  was  the 
crack  of  a  revolver,  and  the  German  pitched  for- 
ward on  top  of  me,  his  rifle  spinning  out  of  his 
hand  and  over  the  top  of  the  trench.  My  fear- 
bound  muscles  relaxed,  and  I  sprang  to  my  feet, 
recovered  my  rifle,  and  rushed  for  a  communica- 
tion-trench, which  by  this  time  was  crowded  with 
a  milling  mass  of  Teuton  and  Scottish  soldiers. 

As  I  plunged  around  the  corner  I  ran  plump 
into  a  six-foot  specimen  of  a  Bavarian.  He 
loomed  up  out  of  the  night  like  an  ox.  There  is 
no  mistaking  these  chaps,  even  in  the  dark.  Their 
outlines  are  different,  their  helmets  are  shaped 
differently,  and  their  packs  are  placed  differently. 
I  think  my  arrival  was  as  much  a  surprise  to  him 
as  his  arrival  was  to  me.  Our  rifles,  bayonet 
first,  went  back  over  our  heads  like  one,  but  I  was 
quicker  on  recovering.  I  lunged  forward,  forget- 
ful of  all  the  instructions  of  our  bayonet-tutor  back 
in  England.  But  perhaps  I  did  remember  them 
subconsciously,  for  my  bayonet  found  its  mark 
neatly  under  the  chin  of  the  Bavarian.  At  the 
time  I  felt  no  special  anxiety  about  his  future  con- 
duct, for  he  collapsed  with  a  grunt.  I  pulled 
my  rifle  out — it  had  been  almost  jerked  from  my 


178  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

hand  by  his  weight — and  rushed  on  to  assist  my 
comrades  in  the  communication-trench. 

By  this  time  the  Bavarians  were  in  full  retreat 
back  to  their  second  line.  Some  of  our  boys  in 
their  eagerness  had  followed  them  across  the 
open  ground  above  the  trench.  This  was  unfor- 
tunate, for  all  of  these  lost  their  lives,  owing  to 
the  fire  of  our  machine-guns  which  were  directed 
indiscriminately  toward  the  fleeing  Germans. 

With  the  winning  of  the  last  yard  of  trench,  we 
each  pulled  from  our  belt  three  sandbags,  and 
the  communication-trenches  were  barricaded  and 
fully  covered  by  enfilading  machine-guns.  It  was 
only  then  that  we  had  time  to  cool  off  and  review 
the  evening's  work.  Probably  the  entire  attack 
and  the  completion  of  our  barricade  had  not  taken 
more  than  half  an  hour  at  the  outside,  but,  as  we 
sifted  back  into  the  trench  proper  and  the  heat 
of  battle  left  us,  some  of  the  horror  of  it  took  pos- 
session of  us. 

There  were  Germans  all  around,  and  there  were 
some  of  our  boys,  too.  One  group  still  flashes  up 
before  me  in  the  night.  It  was  a  German  and  a 
Scotty,  locked  in  each  other's  arms.  Each  had 
run  the  other  through  with  his  bayonet  at  pre- 
cisely the  same  instant,  and  they  had  closed  in 
death's  embrace,  to  remain  there  until  we  pulled 
them  apart. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    BEITISH    AIE    SERVICE    BECOMES    STRONGER THE 

REFUGEE    FROM    LILLE WE   FIND    OUR    WOUNDED 

SERGEANT 

IN  the  face  of  the  many  accounts  of  aeroplane 
fights  with  which  we  are  regaled  to-day,  any  of 
the  little  aeroplane  battles  which  I  observed  in  the 
beginning  of  the  struggle  seem  puny  and  weak. 
You  must  remember  that  in  1915  the  aeroplane 
was  in  its  infancy.  Indeed,  at  that  date,  even 
though  the  Germans  had  few  planes, — they  pre- 
ferred the  Zeppelin — their  aerial  forces  gener- 
ally held  dominance  over  those  of  the  English. 
Both  sides  used  extensively  what  planes  they  had, 
but  the  battle-plane  was  in  its  cradle,  and  a  sin- 
gle type  of  plane  often  served  as  observation-, 
scout-,  and  battle-plane  in  one.  This  made  the 
struggle  of  opposing  planes  none  the  less  interest- 
ing, however,  although  considerably  rarer  than 
to-day. 

At  some  time  in  your  experience  in  the  front 
line  you  are  likely  to  be  appointed  to  aero-scout- 
duty.  In  this  capacity  you  are  instructed  to  keep 
an  eagle  eye  out  for  any  approaching  Taubes  and 

179 


180  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

to  sound  two  shrill  blasts  on  a  whistle  as  an  an- 
nouncement of  their  approach. 

At  such  times  every  one  had  iron-clad  orders  to 
seek  cover  immediately.  There  must  be  no  de- 
lay, the  idea  being  to  impress  the  German  observer 
with  the  absolute  bareness  of  the  landscape  and 
to  hide  from  him  any  troop  movements. 

Outside  Vermelles  I  remember  seeing  one  of 
the  prettiest  battles  between  an  aeroplane  and 
our  anti-aircraft  guns  that  it  has  ever  been  my 
privilege  to  observe.  It  was  one  of  those  won- 
derfully clear  June  days,  ideally  adapted  to  aero- 
plane observation.  The  sun  had  just  swung  up 
over  the  horizon,  when  through  my  binoculars  I 
caught  the  approach  of  a  German  Taube,  with  its 
characteristic  black  cross  on  the  under  wing. 

I  announced  the  fact  to  our  anti-aircraft  gun- 
ners, and  they  immediately  wheeled  their  guns 
into  position,  in  order  to  reach  the  German  when 
he  was  practically  overhead.  He  swung  about  in 
wide,  cautious  circles  for  five  or  ten  minutes,  and 
then,  at  a  word  from  the  commander  of  the  anti- 
aircraft guns,  there  came  the  ripping  crash, 
thrice  repeated,  of  a  three-barreled  rifle. 

Perhaps  you  have  observed  a  display  of  fire- 
works from  across  a  lake  or  a  field.  You  will 
remember  the  sharp  crack  of  the  mortars,  the 
long  wait,  and  then  the  burst  of  multicolored  stars 


THE  BRITISH  AIR  SERVICE        181 

high  up  in  the  heavens,  followed  by  the  crackle 
of  distantly  exploding  rockets.  The  bombard- 
ment of  an  aeroplane  affords  much  the  same  spec- 
tacular display.  There  is  the  sharp  boom — boom 
— boom  of  the  anti-aircraft  gun,  and  then  the  wait 
while  the  shells  spin  their  way  upward.  Pres- 
ently there  are  three  splashes  of  cotton,  which 
spray  out  in  jagged  lines  across  the  heavens,  and 
from  far  off  comes  the  ominous  crackle  of  the 
exploding  shrapnel. 

We  had  quite  a  force  of  anti-aircraft  guns  con- 
centrated on  the  German,  and  he  turned  his  nose 
upward  in  order  to  escape  the  deluge.  But  we 
got  him.  The  gunner  to  our  left  reached  up  and 
apparently  crippled  his  engine  or  punctured  his 
gasoline-tank.  In  any  event,  either  his  engine 
or  his  control  was  badly  shattered,  for  he  spun 
like  a  top,  righted  himself,  and  then  staggered 
first  one  way  and  then  the  other,  like  a  drunken 
bat. 

You  could  not  help  admiring  the  fellow  and  the 
skill  which  he  exhibited.  In  long,  inebriated  vol- 
planes he  slid  down  and  down,  until  he  was  only 
about  a  thousand  feet  above  us,  when  he  appar- 
ently exerted  every  effort  to  obtain  control  over 
his  staggering  craft.  But  it  was  of  no  avail. 
High  above  our  heads  he  plunged  backward,  and 
then  shot  down  like  a  comet  to  the  ground. 


182  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Of  course,  since  the  early  days  of  the  war  we 
have  heard  more  or  less  of  atrocities.  In  your 
country  I  have  seen  and  talked  with  people  who 
hold  the  opinion  that  atrocities  are  a  myth.  That 
no  war  has  ever  been  fought  without  the  occur- 
rence of  some  atrocities  is  true.  A  thousand  or  a 
million  men  cannot  be  gathered  together  without 
some  of  them  overstepping  commands  and  de- 
cency. But  from  all  corners  of  the  line  word 
kept  seeping  in  to  us  of  peculiarly  horrible  muti- 
lations practiced  by  the  German  troops. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  such  atrocities  are 
practiced  under  orders  of  the  German  High  Com- 
mand. I  will  take  no  issue  with  this  fact.  I 
have  heard  the  German  High  Command  blamed 
for  all  atrocities.  Neither  will  I  argue  this  point. 
I  only  know  that  the  man  who  commits  the  atrocity 
is  the  German  private.  He  may  be  acting  under 
orders,  but  the  blood  is  on  his  hands,  though  the 
legal  blame  may  reach  higher. 

I  myself  place  full  blame  upon  the  German 
trooper,  the  private,  for  the  atrocities  which  I 
know  to  have  been  practiced.  Whether  he  is  act- 
ing under  orders  or  not  does  not  influence  my  de- 
cision. I  only  know  that  if  our  officers — or  yours 
— asked  their  men  to  practice  the  brutalities  so 
common  among  German  troops,  those  officers 
would  either  be  accidentally  ( ?)  shot  or  openly  dis- 


THE  BEITISH  AIR  SEEVICE         183 

obeyed.  The  only  possible  alibi  I  can  see  for 
the  German  trooper's  actions  and  his  obedience 
to  orders  from  higher  up  is  the  propaganda  which 
has  been  pumped  into  him  from  earliest  child- 
hood. He  has  been  "fed  up"  on  the  beauties  of 
lust  and  blood.  He  has  been  taught  that  God 
smiles  on  the  German  murderer.  Any  man  who 
is  fool  enough  to  believe  this  sort  of  slime  has  no 
excuse,  in  my  eyes,  for  his  obedience. 

There  has  been  considerable  talk  in  your  coun- 
try of  exaggeration,  of  falsification,  in  reporting 
German  atrocities.  Therefore  it  is  with  great 
caution  that  I  pen  my  own  experiences  and  my 
own  observations  along  this  line.  Some  of  them 
I  witnessed  personally  and  can  vouch  for  with 
my  own  eyes.  Others  came  to  me  directly,  in  a 
manner  which  I  cannot  doubt  in  the  slightest  par- 
ticular. I  have  eliminated  from  the  following  in- 
cidents any  and  all  reports  which  might  savor  in 
the  least  of  rumor  or  exaggeration. 

At  Bethune  there  was  an  estaminet,  kept  by  an 
old  French  woman  and  her  two  daughters.  She 
had  assisting  her  a  young  French  girl  of  about 
eighteen  years,  who  had  one  arm  missing  from 
the  elbow  down.  This  girl  was  strangely  taciturn, 
and  our  boys  dubbed  her  "The  Silent  Partner," 
in  derision  of  her  shyness  and  quiet. 

I  had  come  to  realize,  however,  that  many  of 


184  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

these  French  peasants  who  talk  little,  know  much, 
and  I  made  it  my  business  to  get  better  acquainted 
with  this  girl.  Gradually,  piece  by  piece  and 
little  by  little,  I  won  her  story  from  her. 

She,  too,  had  been  at  Lille  during  the  German 
occupation.  Her  younger  brother,  her  father,  and 
her  mother  had  lived  with  her  in  one  of  the  middle- 
class  sections  of  the  town.  Her  father,  it  seems, 
had  hurried  home  from  his  shop  upon  the  Ger- 
man occupation,  and  had  found  the  Germans  at- 
tempting to  break  into  his  home.  He  argued  with 
them  and  then,  with  bare  hands,  attempted  to 
drive  them  off.  He  had  hardly  lifted  his  arm 
against  them  before  he  was  overpowered,  and  the 
entire  family — mother,  brother,  and  father — were 
taken  out  and  shot  in  cold  blood  upon  their  own 
doorstep. 

The  girl  was  brought  before  the  commanding 
officer,  who  passed  her  on  to  the  officers'  mess. 
Here,  in  a  drunken  orgy,  they  maltreated  her  un- 
til she  swooned  away.  As  she  regained  con- 
sciousness, she  tried  weakly  to  raise  herself, 
and  in  so  doing  grasped  hold  of  the  door-knob. 
One  of  the  drunken  wolves,  who  had  been  a  leader 
in  the  deviltry,  picked  up  a  chair  and  crashed  it 
down  upon  her  outstretched  arm,  splintering  the 
bone  in  several  places.  Whether  or  not  the  sub- 
sequent amputation  was  necessary,  I  do  not  know. 


THE  BRITISH  AIR  SERVICE        185 

In  any  event,  her  arm  was  amputated,  and  until 
her  escape  from  Lille  she  was  forced  to  lead  a 
harlot's  life  among  the  German  troops. 

This  was  the  tale  I  coaxed  from  the  lips  of  a 
reticent  French  girl  who  had  been  through  a  Ger- 
man occupation.  She  told  it  not  willingly  or  with 
braggadocio,  but  as  a  story  coming  from  the  heart 
and  one  too  awful  to  spread  broadcast. 

Another  case  comes  to  my  mind,  the  case  of 
one  of  our  men  who  escaped  from  the  Germans 
and  returned  to  our  lines.  He  had  been  shot 
through  the  hand.  This,  in  itself,  is  an  incon- 
siderable wound,  and  on  showing  it  to  the  Ger- 
man surgeon  he  had  expected  nothing  more  than 
a  casual  bandage.  The  German,  however,  told 
him  that  an  operation  would  be  necessary,  and 
they  lifted  him  upon  the  operating  table  without 
further  ado. 

"You  will  give  me  an  anesthetic,  of  course, 
won't  you?"  said  my  friend. 

"What!"  replied  the  German  surgeon.  "An 
anesthetic  for  a  schwinehund?"  and  forthwith  the 
operation  continued,  while  my  friend  was  held 
down  by  a  group  of  grinning  Teuton  soldiers. 

What  do  you  suppose  that  German  surgeon  did 
for  a  simple  shot  through  the  hand?  In  the  first 
place  he  cut  all  the  tendons  of  my  friend's  hand. 
Then  he  removed  the  bone  from  the  middle  finger 


186  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

in  such  a  manner  that  the  entire  hand  became  ab- 
solutely useless  and  might  as  well  have  been  en- 
tirely removed. 

In  one  of  the  minor  advances  in  which  we  en- 
gaged we  returned  without  our  sergeant.  The  fol- 
lowing day,  in  a  second  attempt  to  retake  the  cov- 
eted ground,  we  came  upon  him.  He  had  been 
captured,  evidently  while  in  a  dazed  condition 
from  a  shell-wound  in  the  head.  A  rifle-bullet  had 
grazed  the  front  of  his  skull  above  the  eyebrow, 
making  nothing  more  than  a  flesh  wound,  but 
probably  rendering  him  senseless  or  dazed  for  a 
considerable  period. 

What  treatment  do  you  think  the  Teutons  gave 
this  wounded  soldier?  I  do  not  know.  I  only 
know  that  I,  with  my  own  eyes,  found  him  trans- 
fixed through  the  chest  with  a  bayonet,  the  point 
of  which  had  been  shoved  into  a  barn-door. 
There  he  hung,  mute  testimony  to  the  German 
treatment  of  wounded  prisoners. 

One  of  the  boys  coming  down  to  us  from  a  neigh- 
boring sector  told  of  an  advance  there  in  which 
they  captured  one  of  the  small  villages  whose 
name  now  escapes  me.  He  told  me  that  as  they 
entered  the  village — this  was  a  surprise  attack — 
they  came  upon  twelve  women,  three  of  them  wan- 
dering about  crazed  beyond  all  recall.  Eight 
others  were  lying  dead  upon  the  public  square, 


BRITISH  AIR  SERVICE        18f 

all  naked  as  Mother  Eve,  victims  of  German  bru- 
tality. 

Another  story  comes  to  my  mind  which  for 
sheer  hideous  inhumanity  exceeds  all  imagination. 
One  of  our  boys  had  been  party  to  an  attack  upon 
a  village  some  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  distant. 
There  he  came  upon  an  old  French  woman  living 
in  a  little  hut  to  the  rear  of  her  former  home, 
which  had  been  burned  to  the  ground  when  the 
Germans  retired.  She  was  the  sole  survivor  of  a 
family  of  five.  Her  soldier  sons  had  been  con- 
nected with  the  regiment  which  defended  the  vil- 
lage. As  the  Germans  swept  through,  the  French 
retired,  leaving  their  dead  and  wounded  behind 
them.  She  followed  the  Germans  and  came  upon 
her  boy  lying  beside  the  road,  fatally  wounded 
and  dying. 

By  this  time  the  French  troops  had  been  rein- 
forced and  were  sweeping  the  Germans  back 
through  the  town.  The  Germans  came  upon  the 
mother  and  her  son  by  the  roadside.  As  they  re- 
treated, the  Germans  poured  oil  upon  the  houses 
and  lit  them,  and  one  of  these  companies  of  incen- 
diaries stumbled  across  the  pitiful  scene  of  the 
mother  and  her  dying  son. 

It  seems  hardly  possible  that  any  man  could  not 
be  touched  by  such  a  sight.  The  mother  had  a 
little  flask  of  wine  which  she  was  administering 


188  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

to  her  son  in  the  vain  hope  of  reviving  him,  if 
only  for  a  moment.  But  the  Germans  saw  in  this 
scene  only  another  opportunity  to  demonstrate 
their  lack  of  human  sensibility,  and  over  this 
wounded  soldier  they  poured  their  oil.  Then 
with  a  rough  jest  and  an  oath  they  touched  the 
flaming  torch  to  him. 

I  believe  that  the  Rev.  Newell  Dwight  Hillis 
speaks  of  this  story,  and  I  believe  that  he  has 
photographs  to  demonstrate  its  absolute  truth. 

I  might  go  on  and  continue  to  rehearse  tale 
after  tale,  all  awful,  almost  unbelievable,  were 
you  not  intimately  familiar  with  the  beast  who 
breeds  these  horrors.  Perhaps  you  in  America 
will  never  believe  them,  until  they  come  back  to 
you  on  the  lips  of  your  own  sons,  but  there  is 
gradually  sifting  over  to  you  some  graphic  demon- 
strations of  the  truth  of  the  tales  which  you  hear. 

Little  Belgian  children  are  being  adopted  now 
and  then  by  philanthropic  Americans,  and  it  was 
two  of  these  children  whom  I  met  one  day  upon 
the  railroad  platform  at  Schenectady,  New  York. 
Their  odd,  half-familiar  dress  attracted  me  to 
them,  and  I  asked  them,  first  in  English  and  then 
in  French,  whither  they  were  bound.  They  did 
not  answer  me,  but  a  station  attendant  came  up 
and  said  that  they  were  Belgian  children.  I 
asked  him  why,  if  this  was  true,  they  did  not 


THE  BRITISH  AIR  SERVICE         189 

speak  French,  and  he  informed  me  that  the  chil- 
dren's tongues  had  been  cut  out.  Yet  more.  As 
they  pulled  their  little  arms  from  their  muffs,  they 
pulled  only  the  stumps,  for  their  hands  had  like- 
wise been  cut  off. 

It  would  do  much  to  awaken  you  people  in 
America  to  the  real  nature  of  the  beast  which 
knocks  at  your  door  if  you  could  have  moving- 
pictures  brought  to  you  of  that  sergeant  of  ours, 
hanging  limp  and  lifeless,  nailed  to  the  barn-door 
with  his  own  bayonet.  It  might  make  the  word 
"atrocity"  mean  something  to  you  if  you  could 
see  the  three  crazed  women  of  whom  my  friend 
told  me,  running  up  and  down  the  village  streets, 
hopeless  maniacs  for  the  rest  of  their  lives.  Per- 
haps you  would  be  less  gentle  with  your  German 
propagandists,  spies,  and  thugs,  if  you  had  seen 
those  two  little  tongueless,  handless,  Belgian 
children  on  the  platform  at  Schenectady,  or  if 
you  had  talked  with  the  little  servant-girl  at 
Bethune  whose  arm  was  gone  and  whose  life  was 
blasted.  Then,  perhaps,  you  would  be  a  little 
less  ready  to  forgive  the  German  people,  and  a 
little  more  ready  to  take  up  arms  against  not  only 
their  government,  but  those  brutes  and  imbeciles 
who  make  that  government,  possible. 


CHAPTEE  IX 


EETUBNS    TO   ITS   HOME — BACK   TO   BLIGHTY   AND 
THE  HOSPITAL 

I  MIGHT  go  on  telling  of  German  atrocity  after 
atrocity.  I  might  sketch  the  picture  of  the 
old  gray-headed  blacksmith  in  a  sector  of  our 
trench  known  as  "Plug  Street, "  who  was  found 
with  his  hands  chained  to  his  anvil,  quite  dead. 
His  wrists  had  been  pulverized,  and  a  bayonet 
transfixed  them  like  a  skewer.  On  the  end  of  the 
bayonet  was  stuck  this  terse  statement,  in  a 
scrawling,  German  hand,  "You  will  never  shoe 
another  horse." 

I  might  tell  you  of  retaking  trenches  by  counter- 
attack, and  of  finding  our  wounded  with  their 
throats  cut  from  ear  to  ear,  disemboweled,  or  ter- 
ribly lacerated. 

Even  in  those  early  days  there  was  ample  and 
sufficient  material  for  an  entire  book  about  Ger- 
man atrocities.  As  week  after  week  goes  by  new 
chapters  are  written,  and,  when  the  last  chapter 
on  this  war  is  finally  penned,  the  subject  of  Ger- 

190 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      191 

man  atrocities  will  fill  several  large  and  grue- 
some volumes. 

But  you  Americans  are  already  hearing  many 
of  them,  and  a  mere  rehearsal  of  their  terrible 
details  would  not  bring  them  any  closer  to  you. 
Even  a  graphic  word-picture  is  not  one-millionth 
as  terrible  as  the  original  scene  itself.  It  would 
be  absolutely  futile  for  me  to  attempt  to  describe 
the  awful  scenes  which  I  myself  have  witnessed, 
or  their  duplicates  which  are  common  rumor  in 
the  trench. 

Therefore  I  will  turn  to  a  rather  humorous 
incident. 

It  was  during  the  usual  eleven  o'clock  "Hymn 
of  Hate"  that  one  of  my  comrades  and  myself 
were  standing  in  the  trench.  For  some  reason  or 
other  I  stepped  away  from  him  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet,  and  I  turned  around  to  call  to  him 
just  as  a  shell  screamed  overhead.  It  exploded 
about  a  foot  above  the  parapet,  and  the  fragments 
sprayed  down  into  the  trench. 

At  precisely  this  instan-t  my  friend  felt  the  un- 
mistakable nip  of  a  "seam-squirrel"  who  was 
making  merry  about  his  waistband.  Just  as  the 
scream  of  the  shell  signaled  its  approach,  he  bent 
over,  and  the  rain  of  shrapnel-bullets  sped  by 
over  his  head.  Had  he  been  standing  in  his  nor- 
mal position,  they  would  -have  caught  him  fairly 


192  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

and  squarely.  When  at  last  he  did  straighten  up, 
he  had  the  "seam-squirrel"  in  his  hand.  For  a 
moment  he  held  it  thus  and  surveyed  the  course 
of  the  shrapnel,  as  indicated  by  the  new-horn 
holes  in  the  opposite  bank.  Then  he  addressed 
himself  to  the  bothersome  rodent : 

"Feller,"  said  he,  "you  're  the  chap  that  saved 
my  life,  and  I  'm  just  going  to  put  you  back  home 
and  let  you  have  a  square  meal,"  and  back  into 
the  luxurious  folds  of  his  kilt  he  deposited  the 
"seam-squirrel"  who  had  innocently  been  his 
preserving  angel. 

On  my  last  trip  from  our  rest-billet  in  Bethune 
we  started  at  high  noon  and  directed  our  march 
toward  Vermelles,  where  we  arrived  at  six  o'clock 
that  evening. 

All  the  way  to  Vermelles  intense  and  unusual 
action  of  both  infantry  and  artillery  was  notice- 
able. Heretofore  Vermelles  had  been  one  of  the 
more  quiet  sections  of  the  line.  It  had  been  re- 
garded as  a  vacation  to  be  sent  there.  Recently, 
however,  this  same  sector  had  become  one  of  the 
most  unpopular.  Owing  to  its  proximity  to  the 
trenches,  increased  fire  was  being  focussed  on  it 
by  the  Germans. 

At  this  time  the  French  were  preparing  for  a 
somewhat  elaborate  advance,  and  the  preliminary 
trench-raids  and  minor  attacks  had  a  tendency  to 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      193 

excite  the  entire  German  line  in  that  vicinity  and 
to  direct  German  wrath  at  French  and  English 
indiscriminately.  As  a  result,  from  a  place  of 
peace  and  quiet,  Vermelles  had  become  a  scene 
of  intense  and  constant  action,  and  our  troops, 
knowing  this  state  of  affairs,  expressed  them- 
selves very  pessimistically  as  we  marched  away 
toward  Vermelles. 

Here  I  again  assumed  my  duties  as  a  sniper, 
and  immediately  upon  our  arrival  in  the  trench 
I  took  up  the  usual  round  of  trench  warfare  as  the 
sniper  sees  it. 

Owing  to  the  tenseness  prevalent  up  and  down 
the  line  at  this  point,  the  night  was  hardly  less 
bright  than  the  day.  Star-shells  were  constantly 
shooting  up,  blinking,  and  going  out.  As  I  stood 
in  a  dugout  on  a  little  rise  of  ground  I  could  see, 
away  off  to  the  right,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  battle 
as  the  French  advanced  upon  the  Germans  or  re- 
treated before  them,  and  I  subconsciously  won- 
dered how  much  longer  it  would  be  before  our 
lines  would  be  illuminated  by  a  flood  of  similar 
party-colored  lights  that  would  indicate  action, 
intense  action. 

On  our  left  were  the  Goorkhas.  I  have  already 
described  the  ungovernable  tendencies  of  these 
chaps  to  revert  to  primeval  man.  Since  my  days 
in  the  front  line  I  believe  that  most  of  them  have 


194  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

been  sent  to  the  Egyptian  front,  where  the  nerv- 
ous waiting  of  trench  warfare  does  not  wear  upon 
them,  and  where  their  natural  inclination  for 
open,  man-to-man  fighting  is  given  a  better  oppor- 
tunity to  display  itself. 

In  trench  warfare  the  Goorkhas  are  inclined  to 
be  extremely  nervous  and  to  fire  upon  the  slight- 
est provocation.  The  best  disciplined  troops 
never  fire  without  a  definite  object  in  view,  but 
the  Indians  have  a  way  of  letting  fly  at  mere 
myths  and  shadows.  As  a  result,  close  prox- 
imity to  them  is  likely  to  be  a  warm  sector  of 
the  trench,  for  they  keep  things  humming,  re- 
gardless of  the  necessity  therefor. 

Impelled  by  sheer  nervousness,  the  Goorkhas 
on  our  left  started  up  a  stream  of  machine-gun- 
fire directed  into  the  shadows  of  the  night,  and 
their  excitement  spread  down  the  trench  until  our 
whole  sector  was  in  an  uproar.  Our  own  boys, 
however,  since  we  heard  no  firing  from  our  alarm- 
posts,  held  out  against  the  nervousness  of  the 
position  until  almost  midnight,  when  our  front 
line  listening-post  succumbed  to  pressure  and  cut 
loose. 

Immediately  our  entire  line  was  on  the  firing- 
step,  throwing  everything  we  had  in  the  direction 
of  the  German  trench,  which  immediately  replied 
in  kind  and  with  equal  enthusiasm. 


EAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH       195 

By  three  or  four  o'clock,  however,  it  became 
apparent  that  we  were  all  firing  at  a  mirage,  and 
the  line  quieted  down,  but  not  until  a  German 
raiding-party,  taking  advantage  of  the  noise  and 
excitement,  had  successfully  put  one  of  our 
machine-guns  out  of  commission. 

This  was  reported  to  us  about  six  o'clock  that 
morning,  and  five  of  us  were  detailed  to  go  down 
near  the  machine-gun  and  do  what  sniping  work 
we  could  in  retaliation  for  the  German  escapade. 

All  day  we  spent  in  that  sector  of  the  line, 
taking  pot-shots  at  a  nest  of  Teuton  snipers  some 
four  hundred  yards  away,  who  were  neatly  pro- 
tected by  a  clump  of  charred  and  jagged  stumps. 

Of  course  I  do  not  know  whether  we  did  them 
any  harm.  Our  object  was  to  keep  the  Germans 
"on  edge"  so  far  as  possible;  that  is,  to  keep 
them  nervous.  Only  incidentally  was  it  our  de- 
sire to  do  them  harm  in  a  physical  way. 

That  night  MacFarland  asked  for  six  volun- 
teers to  go  out  into  no-man's-land  to  reconnoiter 
in  preparation  for  a  trench-raid  on  the  following 
night.  It  was  to  be  our  duty  to  make  a  thorough 
investigation  of  the  German  outer  defenses,  and 
to  find  out  as  much  as  we  could  concerning  the 
strength  of  the  opposing  forces. 

Of  course  we  took  with  us  only  the  usual  tools 
for  a  trench-raid — our  revolvers  and  trench- 


196  "LADIES  FEOM  HELL" 

knives.  Before  going,  MacFarland  indicated  to 
us  that  this  was  no  ordinary  raid  on  which  we 
were  bound,  and  after  explaining  what  he  had  in 
mind  he  gave  any  or  all  of  us  a  chance  to  back  out. 

But  none  of  us  withdrew,  and  so,  toward  mid- 
night we  set  out  from  a  sap-head  that  brought 
us  within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  German 
barbed  wire. 

Across  no-man  's-land  we  snaked,  dodging  flares 
and  doing  our  utmost  to  become  an  intimate  part 
of  the  scenery.  About  twenty-five  yards  ahead 
of  us  loomed  the  German  wire,  when  off  to  our 
right  we  saw  twelve  Germans  advancing  toward 
us.  Flat  upon  our  stomachs  we  went,  and  by 
gradual  degrees  worked  ourselves  into  conven- 
ient shell-holes  in  the  vicinity. 

By  the  best  of  good  fortune,  and  it  was  only 
good  fortune,  the  Germans  had  not  seen  us,  and 
they  passed  within  three  feet  of  my  head. 

After  giving  them  ample  time  to  put  distance 
between  us,  we  crawled  up  to  the  German  barbed 
wire  at  a  point  which  we  judged  would  be  in  the 
vicinity  of  their  advanced  listening-post.  Here 
we  pulled  out  our  wire-cutters  and  snipped  a  neat 
path  through  it  to  the  sap-head  at  which  our 
efforts  were  to  be  directed. 

As  we  came  in  front  of  it  two  close-clipped, 
blond  heads  bobbed  leisurely  about  back  of  the 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      197 

parapet,  so  we  knew  that  our  attack  was  as  yet 
unannounced.  At  a  predetermined  signal  we 
split  up  into  parties  of  two.  A  pair  of  us  went 
to  the  right  of  the  parapet,  two  went  to  the  left, 
and  the  officer  and  myself  made  for  the  sap-head 
itself. 

Of  course  we  had  no  desire  to  repeat  the  expe- 
rience of  our  former  raiding-party,  when  we  had 
attracted  the  entire  strength  of  the  German 
machine-guns  by  the  firing  of  a  flare.  This  raid 
was  to  be  as  quiet  and  inconspicuous  as  we  could 
possibly  make  it.  Therefore,  instead  of  taking 
our  revolvers  by  the  butt,  we  took  them  by  the 
barrel  and  trusted  to  deliver  a  silent  dispatch  to 
any  German  who  came  our  way. 

At  a  signal  from  the  officer  we  plunged  forward 
and  did  away  with  the  Germans  in  the  sap-head, 
making  absolutely  no  noise.  One  of  them  re- 
ceived the  butt  of  my  revolver  on  the  top  of  his 
head  before  he  even  knew  that  we  were  within 
fifty  yards,  and  the  other  was  strangled  by  the 
officer  without  so  much  as  a  peep  out  of  him. 

Such  luck  seemed  almost  too  good  to  be  true, 
but  we  made  the  most  of  it,  and  the  six  of  us 
dashed  down  the  narrow  sap-trench  into  an  ad- 
vanced firing-trench  which,  fortunately  for  us, 
was  not  properly  a  part  of  the  German  line  at 
this  point. 


198  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

Into  this  firing-trench  we  went  at  full  speed, 
and  on  coming  around  a  corner  of  it  I  ran  head-on 
into  a  German  peacefully  puffing  away  at  his  pipe. 
Again  the  butt  of  my  revolver  came  down  just 
above  his  ear,  and  he  collapsed  with  little  more 
than  a  grunt. 

While  I  was  finishing  this  little  job  to  my  per- 
sonal satisfaction,  making  sure  that  this  particu- 
lar German  would  not  return  to  haunt  us,  the  rest 
of  the  fellows  ran  on  and  obtained  a  rather  com- 
plete mental  map  of  the  surroundings.  This 
finished,  and  our  efforts  still  remaining  undiscov- 
ered, we  were  emboldened  to  try  for  the  lookouts 
in  another  sap-head. 

Two  abreast,  we  dashed  out  toward  it.  We 
were  only  half  way  to  the  sap-head,  when  word 
somehow  reached  the  German  line  that  there  was 
trouble  out  front.  We  could  hear  them  coming 
up  through  the  communication-trenches,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  entire  German  line  burst  into 
a  roar  of  machine-gun  racket  that  made  the  night 
sound  like  the  interior  of  a  boiler-shop. 

This  was  no  time  to  try  our  skill  on  the  Germans 
in  the  second  listening-post.  We  hopped  up  over 
the  parapet  and  endeavored  to  dash  across  to  our 
own  listening-posts  as  fast  as  our  legs  could  carry 
us.  But  our  progress  was  slow.  As  each  flare 
hissed  up  into  the  sky,  we  had  to  fall  flat  or  roll 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      199 

into  a  convenient  shell-hole.  We  had  made  scant 
progress  in  this  way  for  the  best  part  of  a  half 
hour,  when  MacFarland,  who  was  with  me,  ex- 
claimed, * '  My  God,  they  've  got  me ! "  and  grasped 
his  arm  in  an  ecstasy  of  pain. 

I  managed  to  get  him  behind  a  little  rise  of 
ground,  where  we  discovered  that  his  wound  was 
hardly  more  than  a  flesh-wound  in  the  arm,  al- 
though extremely  painful.  I  bound  him  up  as 
best  I  could,  and  we  settled  ourselves  in  an  un- 
usually luxuriant  shell-hole,  hoping  that  the  line 
would  quiet  down. 

By  this  time  the  entire  sector  had  become  thor- 
oughly aroused,  and  no-man  's-land  was  alive  with 
everything  from  rifle-bullets  to  larger  stuff.  As 
we  were  discussing  the  matter  and  the  prospects 
for  our  getting  out  alive,  another  of  our  fellows 
rolled  into  our  shell-hole  with  a  nasty  wound  in 
his  chest.  Later  a  fourth  made  his  way  into  the 
same  cover.  Those  of  us  who  were  still  able  to 
navigate  volunteered  to  help  get  the  wounded 
back  to  our  line,  but  both  of  them  refused  all 
assistance  and  declared  that  it  was  up  to  every 
man  to  fend  for  himself  as  best  he  could. 

After  waiting  for  fully  an  hour,  the  firing 
lulled  a  little.  I  stuck  my  head  over  the  edge  of 
the  shell-hole  to  see  how  things  looked.  Not 
fifteen  feet  away  I  could  see  the  outlines  of  the 


200  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

same  working-party  that  had  nearly  found  us  on 
our  journey  up  to  the  German  trench  earlier  in 
the  evening. 

By  this  time  a  driving  rain  had  set  in  and  the 
definite  outlines  of  the  party  were  not  distinctly 
visible.  Our  wounded  officer,  however,  found  the 
opportunity  too  good  to  miss,  and,  raising  himself 
on  his  elbow,  he  fired  at  the  nearest  German, 
whose  appearance  seemed  to  indicate  that  he,  too, 
might  be  an  officer.  Evidently  he  got  him,  be- 
cause the  German  fell  with  a  resounding  flop  and 
a  tremendous  curse.  The  rest  of  the  party  then 
seemed  to  disappear  entirely,  and  we  were  just 
congratulating  ourselves  on  bagging  the  officer 
when  we  found  sudden  cause  to  regret  our  impet- 
uosity. 

Evidently  our  officer's  shot,  flashing  out  from 
no-man's  land,  had  attracted  the  German  gunners. 
After  a  lull  of  a  minute  or  two  they  f ocussed  their 
fire  in  our  direction.  "Typewriter-fire"  is  what 
we  call  it — fifty  or  sixty  shots  in  one  shell-hole 
and  then  fifty  or  sixty  more  in  another,  and  so  on 
until  all  the  shell-holes  in  that  vicinity  have  been 
searched  out.  But  fortunately  they  failed  to 
locate  our  particular  hiding-place,  protected  as  it 
was  by  a  meager  rise  of  ground,  and  toward  morn- 
ing we  were  able  to  sneak  back  to  our  listening- 
post,  where  we  reported  to  our  colonel. 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      201 

Four  of  the  boys  had  "got  theirs"  that  night. 
None  of  the  wounds  were  serious,  however,  though 
three  of  them  were  sufficient  to  send  the  victims 
to  Blighty.  The  fourth  had  received  a  "cushey" 
wound  in  the  fleshy  part  of  his  leg,  and  a  few 
weeks  in  one  of  the  neighboring  hospitals  would 
bring  him  around  0.  K. 

For  the  next  two  or  three  days  nothing  of  any 
particular  importance  happened,  and  we  went 
about  our  usual  round  of  snipers'  duties,  but  al- 
ways with  the  feeling  that  something  was  com- 
ing. The  entire  sector  was  extremely  nervous, 
and  the  constant  action  of  the  neighboring  French 
continued -to  keep  us  on  our  toes. 

I  remember  how  one  morning — it  was  on  a 
Wednesday — about  two  o'clock  I  was  aroused 
by  a  particularly  heavy  bit  of  shelling,  and  I 
hastened  from  my  quarters  up  to  the  front  line 
to  find  out  what  the  trouble  might  be.  The  shells 
were  not  directed  at  the  front  line,  but  at  the  bat- 
teries to  the  rear,  and  they  seemed  to  be  scream- 
ing overhead  in  a  solid  sheet. 

As  2 :30  drew  near,  we  could  hear  them  coming 
closer  and  closer.  They  seemed  to  have  shifted, 
and  were  now  sweeping  the  communication- 
trenches  just  to  the  rear  of  the  front  line. 

At  three  o'clock  came  the  usual  "stand-to" 
order,  and  every  one  jumped  on  the  firing  step, 


202  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

thoroughly  convinced  that  a  German  attack  was 
scheduled  for  the  immediate  future.  From  three 
to  four  o'clock  we  paced  nervously  up  and  down 
the  trench,  awaiting  the  signal  from  our  listening- 
post.  At  four  o'clock  we  heard  the  rattle  of  mus- 
ketry-fire out  on  our  front,  and  immediately  every 
one  was  on  the  alert. 

I  hurriedly  made  my  way  to  a  little  rise  in  the 
trench,  while  the  rest  of  the  snipers  ran  back  to 
previously  prepared  positions  about  fifty  yards 
to  the  rear,  where  they  calculated  on  becoming  a 
nasty  menace  to  the  Germans  in  our  trench,  should 
they  succeed  in  getting  into  it. 

From  my  chosen  vantage-point  I  could  indis- 
tinctly see  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  in 
each  direction,  and  the  horizon  within  this  radius 
gave  the  appearance  of  being  alive.  In  the  semi- 
misty  darkness  of  early  morning  I  could  sense  the 
Germans  coming,  although  I  could  not  see  them 
with  any  degree  of  exactness.  But  as  the  min- 
utes passed,  the  horizon  assumed  a  steadier  posi- 
tion, and  just  under  it  I  could  see  the  Germans 
coming  on  at  a  slow  trot,  massed  shoulder  to 
shoulder  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  in  either 
direction. 

Our  boys  held  their  fire  until  the  oncoming  line 
was  plainly  visible,  and  then  we  cut  loose.  Mean- 
while word  had  been  telephoned  to  the  artillery 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      203 

to  give  us  all  the  help  they  could,  but  in  those 
days  artillery  help,  at  the  most,  was  usually  about 
ten  or  fifteen  shells,  so  that  it  fell  to  us  to  seek 
our  salvation  through  our  rifle-sights. 

By  this  time  the  Germans  were  plainly  visible, 
and  individuals  stood  out  and  ceased  to  be  merely 
a  part  and  parcel  of  a  moving,  heaving  line.  On 
they  came,  until  they  were  about  thirty-five  yards 
from  our  front  line.  By  that  time  extra  machine- 
guns  had  been  brought  up  from  the  second-line 
trench,  and  we  were  letting  them  have  the  full 
benefit  of  two  weeks  of  nervous  waiting. 

Twenty-five  yards  away  from  us,  and  the  full 
effect  of  our  fire  became  apparent.  There  were 
huge  gaps  in  the  German  line,  and  the  closer  they 
came,  the  wider  grew  the  gaps.  Another  ten 
yards,  and  the  result  was  in  the  balance.  The 
Germans  halted.  At  this  psychological  moment, 
by  some  stroke  of  fortune,  we  seemed  able  to  di- 
rect an  extra  stream  of  fire  at  them,  and  they 
fell  back  to  their  own  trenches.  But  at  least  two- 
thirds  of  them  were  left  behind,  out  in  no-man's- 
land. 

Following  this,  everything  was  quiet  for  fifteen 
or  twenty  minutes.  But  then,  apparently  in  re- 
taliation for  their  defeat,  the  Germans  started  a 
heavy  shelling  of  our  front  line. 

Ten  of  us  were  congregated  in  the  trench  at  the 


204  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

mouth  of  two  dugouts.  One  of  these  ran  out 
under  no-man's-land,  while  the  other  ran  back 
toward  the  rear.  I  was  standing  at  the  mouth  of 
the  one  that  ran  toward  the  rear  and  was  dis- 
cussing the  attack  with  four  or  five  of  the  fellows 
who  were  with  me.  We  could  hear  the  German 
shells  sweeping  up  and  down  about  two  hundred 
yards  to  our  right.  Then,  little  by  little,  they 
crept  up  toward  us.  One  in  advance  of  all  the 
others  hit  about  fifty  yards  to  our  left;  then  an- 
other— this  time  in  direct  line  with  us — hit  some 
seventy-five  yards  to  the  rear. 

At  this  juncture  my  guardian  angel  came  down 
and  whispered  in  my  ear,  and  for  no  reason  what- 
ever I  stepped  over  to  the  entrance  of  the  dugout 
just  opposite  to  the  one  at  which  I  had  been  stand- 
ing. I  had  hardly  reached  its  doorway  when 
there  came  a  scream  like  an  express-train  in  a 
tunnel,  next  a  terrific  flash  that  blotted  out  every- 
thing, and  then  I  felt  myself  engulfed  as  by  a 
mighty  blanket  which  weighed  down  upon  me  with 
tons  of  weight.  There  was  no  pain,  in  fact,  there 
was  no  active  sensation  at  all.  Everything 
seemed  simply  blotted  out. 

When  I  came  to,  a  sorry  sight  met  my  eye. 
The  shell,  almost  grazing  my  head  in  its  flight, 
had  buried  itself  in  the  threshold  of  the  dugout 
that  I  had  just  left.  The  force  of  the  ensuing 


EAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      205 

explosion  had  catapulted  the  earth  under  my  feet 
into  the  air,  and  with  this  earth  went  myself  and 
the  dugout  in  front  of  which  I  stood.  The  entire 
terrain  thereabouts  had  come  down  upon  "  yours 
truly,"  and  the  main  beam  of  the  dugout  rested 
snugly  in  the  small  of  my  back.  I  was  flat  on  my 
stomach,  and  my  face  was  buried  almost  up  to  my 
eyes  in  mud. 

But  at  that  I  wasn't  nearly  as  badly  off  as 
some  of  the  other  boys.  The  four  who  had  been 
standing  in  the  dugout  opposite  me  had  been  en- 
tirely wiped  out  of  existence.  Within  three  feet 
of  my  head  Porky  Pete 's  feet  stuck  out.  The  rest 
of  him  was  buried  under  the  debris  which  held  me 
down. 

Even  as  I  took  this  in,  I  became  aware  of  ter- 
rific pain.  It  felt  as  though  a  great  knife  had 
ripped  from  the  sole  of  my  foot  up  to  the  nape  of 
my  neck.  At  intervals  this  died  away  entirely, 
and  I  became  convinced  that  my  entire  body  had 
been  shot  away.  I  remember  wondering  vaguely 
if  a  man  could  live  without  his  body,  and  then  all 
worry  about  my  body  ceased  as  I  found  that  I 
was  totally  incapable  of  moving  my  arms.  Imme- 
diately I  conjured  up  terrible  pictures  of  how  I 
would  look  without  my  arms. 

Until  daylight  I  lay  there  helpless.  The  Ger- 
mans continued  a  terrific  shelling,  and  it  would 


206  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

have  been  utterly  impossible  for  any  of  my  com- 
rades to  reach  me.  The  entire  trench  had  been 
destroyed.  The  parapet  for  several  yards  in 
either  direction  was  gone,  and  any  one  attempting 
to  rescue  me  would  have  faced  certain  death. 

At  last,  however,  three  of  the  fellows  managed 
to  dig  a  shallow  trench,  which  partially  covered 
them  and  enabled  them  to  reach  the  collapsed  dug- 
out. Fortunately  for  me,  I  was  in  a  direct  line 
with  their  trench,  and  by  seven  o'clock  they  had 
me  out;  but  the  rest  of  the  poor  devils  who  had 
been  with  me  when  the  shell  hit  were  not  taken 
out  until  noon,  or  later,  of  the  same  day.  Of  the 
ten  in  that  laughing  group  before  the  two  dug- 
outs, only  three  of  us  remained  alive. 

I  was  hurried  from  the  dugout  to  a  dressing- 
station  slightly  to  the  rear,  where  the  medical 
officer  told  me  that  he  thought  I  was  good  for 
Blighty.  I  had  no  notion  of  what  was  the  matter 
with  me.  I  was  dazed  from  shell-shock,  and  per- 
sisted in  believing  that  my  entire  body  had  been 
shot  away  and  that  only  my  head  was  being  car- 
ried about.  At  intervals  I  found  considerable 
amusement  in  observing  myself  in  this  sad  pre- 
dicament. 

During  a  lucid  interval  I  saw  a  chap  next  to 
me  whose  condition  was  infinitely  worse  than 
mine  and  whose  fortunes  were  no  better.  He  had 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      207 

come  over  in  one  of  the  late  drafts  and  had  been 
in  a  front-line  trench  but  two  hours  when  a  shrap- 
nel, exploding  near  him,  gave  him  a  jagged  wound 
and  sent  him  back  for  a  period  of  weeks.  On  his 
return  he  had  been  in  the  trench  but  a  scant  half- 
hour  when  another  shrapnel  picked  him  up,  and 
this  time  he  was  pretty  b'adly  done  up. 

With  this  fellow  and  three  others  who  had  "got 
theirs"  during  the  attack  or  the  bombardment,  I 
was  carried  back  through  the  communication- 
trench  to  a  little  Ford  ambulance  that  chattered 
by  the  roadside.  I  happened  to  be  placed  on  the 
bottom  layer  of  stretchers.  Just  above  me  was  a 
chap  with  his  entire  shoulder  and  head  swathed 
in  bandages.  He  must  have  been  badly  wounded, 
for  the  blood  kept  dripping  down  and  hitting  my 
stretcher  just  alongside  my  ear.  Try  as  I  would, 
I  couldn't  move  my  head,  and  all  the  way  to  Be- 
tmme  I  heard  this  poor  chap  call  for  water  and 
felt  the  constant  tap-tap-tap  of  his  blood  beside 
me. 

In  Bethune  I  was  put  to  bed  in  a  convent,  await- 
ing further  diagnosis  by  the  physician  in  charge. 
On  my  right  was  a  pale,  wide-eyed  chap,  who  from 
time  to  time  reached  under  his  mattress  to  pull 
out  a  tiny,  tin  tobacco-box  from  which  he  took  a 
pinch  of  something. 

Believing  it  to  be  his  duly  prescribed  medicine, 


208  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

I  thought  nothing  of  it.  But  as  he  continued  his 
excursions  under -the  mattress,  I  noticed  that  he 
endeavored  to  take  his  little  dose  without  being 
observed  by  the  orderlies  or  doctor.  Medicine 
requires .  no  such  f-urtiveness.  Immediately  my 
suspicions  were  aroused. 

When  the  medical  officer  came  up  to  him,  he 
said: 

"Well,  young  fellow,  what  seems  to  be  the 
trouble  with  you! " 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  replied  the  pale,  wide- 
eyed  individual,  "but  I  think  I  have  heart- 
failure." 

Thereupon  the  medical  officer  felt  his  pulse, 
listened  to  his  heart,  and  passed  on. 

The  orderlies  gossiped  openly  about  the  ter- 
rific pulse  of  this  otherwise  apparently  normal 
young  fellow.  Somehow  I  could  n't  help  connect- 
ing his  tin  tobacco-box  with  his  pulse,  although  I 
had  no  reason  for  doing  so. 

Toward  evening  the  M.  0.  in  charge  came  in 
and  made  directly  for  this  same  young  chap.  But 
this  time,  instead  of  asking  him  what  ailed  him  or 
how  he  felt,  he  lifted  the  mattress  and  pulled  out 
the  little  tin  box  which  had  awakened  my  suspi- 
cions. Then,  with  a  muttered  oath  and  a  dis- 
gusted look  on  his  face,  he  turned  to  the  orderly 
and  said: 


EAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      209 

"Another  one  of  those  cordite-eaters!  Send 
him  along  and  give  him  two  or  three  weeks  of 
rest.  Then  back  to  the  front  for  him!" 

Cordite  is  little  more  than  gun-cotton,  or  nitro- 
glycerine in  solid  form,  and  of  course  is  easily 
obtainable  near  the  front.  It  is  likewise  a  very 
active  heart-stimulant,  and  as  such  I  believe  it  is 
often  given  prior  to  or  following  operations. 
This  wide-eyed  young  wiseacre,  knowing  this  fact, 
had  partaken  liberally  of  the  substance,  and  as  a 
result  his  heart  pounded  like  a  twelve-cylinder 
motor.  Such  symptoms,  however,  are  becoming 
well  known  to  medical  officers,  and  as  a  result 
"heart  failure"  on  the  front  line  is  becoming  con- 
siderably less  prevalent  than  in  the  early  days  of 
the  war.  Cordite-eaters  are  given  scant  encour- 
agement, I  may  add. 

After  the  incident  of  the  cordite-eater  another 
load  of  wounded  was  brought  in,  and  a  Goorkha 
was  put  down  at  my  left.  Hardly  had  he  arrived 
when  my  nostrils  quivered  under  the  most  haunt- 
ingly  familiar,  yet  unfamiliar,  odor.  What  was 
it?  Where  was  it?  I  could  answer  neither  ques- 
tion. As  the  minutes  dragged  along,  it  became 
unbearable.  I  turned  my  head  and  scrutinized 
the  Indian.  Certainly  he  was  dirty  enough  to 
crea-te  a  stench,  but  not  such  a  stench  as  this.  At 
last  I  could  stand  it  no  longer. 


210  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

"What  smells  so?"  I  asked  the  Goorkha. 

His  teeth  gleamed,  and  in  reply  he  shot  out  a 
mixture  of  English  and  native  jargon.  About  all 
I  could  understand  was  a  word  that  sounded 
strangely  like  "souvenirs."  For  half  an  hour  I 
pondered.  Souvenirs?  Odor?  I  could  see  no 
connection  between  the  two. 

In  a  fit  of  anger,  I  at  length  called  the  orderly. 
He  agreed  with  me  that  no  odor  like  that  belonged 
in  a  hospital,  and,  like  myself,  he  suspected  the 
Indian.  But  in  reply  to  his  questions,  only  an 
excited  medley  of  impossible  English  was  forth- 
coming. At  last,  in  sheer  desperation,  I  said, 
"Look  in  his  pack." 

The  orderly  opened  it,  and  recoiled  in  horror. 
The  Goorkha  sat  up,  reached  over,  and  pulled  out 
a  string  of  six  or  eight  human  ears,  purloined 
from  dead  Germans. 

"Souvenirs,"  he  cackled  delightedly.  "Sou- 
venirs I" 

I  presume  that  his  family  back  home  would  re- 
quire some  physical  proof  of  his  prowess,  and  he, 
poor  savage,  inspired  perhaps  by  his  peep  into  the 
ways  of  enlightened  kultur,  thought  that  his 
string  of  awful  "souvenirs"  would  be  his  best 
and  most  modern  answer  to  them. 

That  evening  the  physician  in  charge,  a  major, 
and  a  captain  came  in  to  diagnose  my  case  and 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH       211 

to  settle  my  future  disposition.  They  looked  me 
over,  but  as  yet  I  was  unable  to  find  out  from 
them  what  ailed  me.  I  heard  them  discussing  my 
troubles,  however,  and  gathered  that  they  would 
not  operate  here,  but  that  I  would  be  passed  on 
to  Blighty. 

Immediately  thereafter  I  was  tagged  and  loaded 
into  an  ambulance  which  took  me  to  Lillers,  where 
we  were  pushed  into  a  hospital-train  bound  for 
Boulogne. 

All  this  time  I  had  been  in  a  semi-dazed  condi- 
tion from  shell-shock.  It  was  only  at  intervals 
that  I  seemed  to  regain  my  full  and  normal  fac- 
ulties, but  the  hospital-train  brought  me  to  com- 
plete consciousness  with  a  delightful  shock. 

If  there  is  anything  wonderful  in  the  world,  it 
is  a  hospital-train.  Here,  for  the  first  time  since 
I  had  come  to  France,  I  rested  snugly  between 
sheets.  And  the  springs!  They  were  real 
springs  that  rode  you  comfortably,  without  jolt- 
ing, as  the  train  bumped  over  frogs  and  crossings. 
Then  there  were  nurses,  every  one  of  them  a  beau- 
tiful angel.  The  doctors,  even  though  gruff  and 
hurried,  seemed  like  no  ordinary  mortals.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  I  had  not  had  to  shift  for  my- 
self, and  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  being 
wounded. 

The  food  was  wonderful,  too.    I  don't  remem- 


212  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

ber  what  we  ate  or  how  it  was  served,  but  I  shall 
never  taste  food  as  good  as  I  did  upon  that  hos- 
pital-train. It  all  seemed  like  a  dream  at  the 
time,  and  I  remember  wondering  vaguely  when  I 
would  awaken  and  find  myself  again  in  the  front 
line. 

One  of  the  nurses  told  me  that  we  were  bound 
for  the  train-head  of  a  sector  some  distance  out- 
side of  Ypres.  As  we  approached  the  town  I 
could  distinctly  hear  the  heavy  shelling  which  has 
damned  Ypres  since  early  in  the  war.  Here  we 
were  switched  about,  and  finally,  after  only  a  little 
delay,  we  were  off  for  Boulogne. 

At  Boulogne  hosts  of  ambulances  met  us,  and 
as  mine  was  adjudged  a  serious  case,  I  was  de- 
spatched to  the  hospital  at  Wimereux.  This 
hospital,  however,  was  full  to  overflowing,  and 
we  new  arrivals  were  placed  in  tents.  These 
were  huge  affairs,  almost  as  large  as  your  circus- 
tents.  Here  heaven  itself  reached  down  to  us 
again.  It  was  early  evening,  and  we  went 
through  the  luxury  of  a  real  bath,  with  warm 
water  and  soap.  Immediately  following  the  bath, 
I  drowsed  off.  My  cot  happened  to  be  near  the 
door,  and  as  the  orderlies  and  nurses  went  back 
and  forth  constantly,  I  found  it  hard  to  sink  into 
real,  solid  slumber. 

At  last,  through  the  exercise  of  will  power,  I 


One  of  our  guardian  angels 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      213 

did  drop  off  completely,  and  immediately  I  was  in 
the  front  line  wrestling  with  a  husky  German. 
Through  the  darkness  came  a  woman's  voice.  It 
was  urging  me  to  stop,  and  I  felt  strong  hands 
upon  my  shoulder.  I  hung  on  to  the  German  for 
dear  life,  and  endeavored  to  plant  my  teeth  in  his 
leg.  But  still  that  woman's  voice  kept  coming  out 
of  the  dark  at  me.  It  bothered  me.  It  didn't 
belong;  it  was  incongruous;  and  I  awakened  to 
find  myself  on  the  floor,  with  both  arms  wrapped 
around  the  leg  of  an  orderly  and  my  teeth  buried 
in  the  flap  of  his  trousers.  Even  in  my  sleep  I 
still  fought  Germans,  and  I  believe  that  my  jaws 
would  have  been  locked  in  that  orderly's  trousers 
to  this  day,  had  not  the  strange  voice  of  a  nurse 
awakened  me. 

My  nurse  was  a  veteran  of  the  Boer  War,  and 
when  I  told  her  that  I  was  a  member  of  the  Lon- 
don Scottish,  she  took  an  extra  interest  in  me  and 
told  me  that  she  would  see  if  she  could  n  't  get  me 
home  to  Blighty.  The  following  morning  they 
held  a  consultation  over  me,  and  I  discovered  for 
the  first  time  that  there  was  a  kink  or  a  jolt  or 
something  the  matter  with  my  spinal  cord,  which 
affected  my  right  leg.  It  was  considerable  of  a 
comfort  to  know  that  I  had  something  definitely 
the  matter  with  me. 

After  the  conference  an  orderly  brought  all  my 


214  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

stuff  to  the  side  of  my  cot  and  broke  the  news  to 
me  that  I  was  bound  for  Blighty.  I  was  loaded 
into  an  ambulance  and  moved  to  the  wharf,  where 
a  white  hospital-ship  was  being  rapidly  loaded 
with  hundreds  of  similar  inert  shapes  on 
stretchers. 

Still  it  all  seemed  like  a  dream  to  me.  The 
transfer  from  the  tense  excitement  of  fighting  to 
the  intense,  almost  oppressive  quiet  of  a  hospital- 
ship  seemed  absolutely  unreal.  I  actually  kept 
pinching  myself  in  an  endeavor  to  prove  it  all, 
and  all  at  once,  either  a  dream  or  a  reality. 

The  bed  with  a  mattress  and  springs,  dozens  of 
nurses,  the  smell  of  the  water,  and  the  inevitable 
noises  of  a  dock  helped  to  bring  me  around  to  a 
full  realization  that  at  last  I  was  bound  for 
Blighty  and  for  home. 

I  haxl  just  inhaled  a  breath  of  true  exaltation 
when  the  grim  specter,  Worry,  again  reached  out 
after  me.  Suppose  the  Huns  should  pick  this 
hospital-ship  as  a  target  for  one  of  their  torpe- 
does I  I  dreaded  to  think  of  starting  at  all,  and 
seriously  contemplated  a  request  to  be  returned 
to  some  hospital  in  France.  While  I  was  con- 
sidering the  advisability  of  so  doing,  the  screw 
began  to  churn  and  I  resigned  myself  to  my  fate. 
My  mind  was  fully  made  up  that  mine  was  to  be  a 
watery  grave.  Almost  in  tears,  I  confided  to  the 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH       215 

nurse  that  I  could  not  swim.  She  laughingly 
assured  me  that  there  would  be  no  occasion  for 
such  an  accomplishment. 

That  night  I  counted  each  revolution  of  the 
screw.  Every  time  that  it  hesitated  or  spun  out 
of  the  water  in  one  of  the  huge  channel-seas  I  was 
thoroughly  convinced  that  we  were  taking  our  last 
plunge  for  Davy  Jones'  locker.  Not  a  dram  of 
sleep  passed  my  eyes,  and  I  refused  to  believe 
myself  safe  until  I  heard  the  nurse  say  that  South- 
ampton was  only  ten  minutes  away. 

Here  we  were  again  loaded  on  stretchers,  and 
as  I  came  down  the  gang-plank,  feet  first,  I  saw 
the  most  beautiful  sight  that  ever  greeted  the  eyes 
of  man.  It  was  home !  It  was  the  Southampton 
that  I  knew  in  real  life!  Those  spires  were  no 
mirage ;  those  taxicabs  were  real ;  the  horses  were 
not  drawing  artillery  caissons. 

Stretched  out  before  me  in  long  rows  were  am- 
bulances by  the  hundreds,  apparently,  and  what 
looked  like  thousands  of  stretcher-bearers 
marched  in  endless  trains  to  and  from  the  ship. 
In  the  Background  were  six  or  eight  hospital- 
trains  and,  earnestly  desiring  to  be  put  in  a  hos- 
pital as  near  home  as  possible,  I  called  to  one  of 
the  officers,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  loading  of 
the  trains.  I  told  him  a  sad  tale  of  woe,  but  he 
neatly  and  curtly  informed  me  that  I  ought  to  be 


216  "LADIES  FEOM  HELL" 

thankful  to  be  home  at  all,  and  that  I  should  not 
be  so  forward  as  to  attempt  to  pick  my  own  hos- 
pital. 

But  perhaps  his  bark  was  worse  than  his  bite, 
for  I  was  loaded  on  a  train  bound  for  the  hospital 
that  I  most  desired,  the  one  at  Cardiff. 

Three  hours  later  we  were  unloaded  from  the 
train  under  the  eyes  of  half  the  town.  Cheer 
after  cheer  was  given,  and  we  were  packed  into 
ambulances  which  rolled  with  wonderful  smooth- 
ness to  the  immense  hospital. 

Here  my  uniform  was  removed,  and  in  its  place 
I  received  the  usual  blue  hospital-uniform  and  a 
"nighty.*'  I  hated  to  see  my  Scottish  kilts  leave 
me,  and,  although  it  was  strictly  contrary  to 
orders,  my  nurse  was  kind  enough  to  rescue  them 
and  preserve  them  for  me  until  my  release. 

Soon  after  our  arrival  Major  Brooks,  who  was 
one  of  the  foremost  surgeons  in  England,  came  in, 
looked  me  over,  and  told  me  that  he  would  oper- 
ate on  the  following  Wednesday.  I  asked  the 
nurse  to  wire  my  mother.  She  arrived  on  Mon- 
day. 

As  I  saw  her  coming  through  the  door,  I  knew 
for  a  surety  that  I  was  really  at  home.  Then  I 
knew  that  it  was  all  over,  at  least  for  the  time. 
My  mother  was  extremely  brave.  I  do  not  know 
whether  she  knew  the  seriousness  of  my  injury, 


EAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      217 

but  she  gave  no  outward  signs  of  worry.  With 
both  arms  clasped  around  me,  she  kissed  me  re- 
peatedly, and  I,  baby  that  I  was,  broke  down  and 
cried  like  a  three-year-old,  while  she  did  her 
utmost  to  comfort  me. 

Next  to  my  bed  stood  that  of  a  poor  chap  named 
Gilroy.  My  mother  immediately  made  friends 
with  Mrs.  Gilroy.  The  mothers  or  wives  of  all 
the  seriously  wounded  are  permitted  to  spend  the 
entire  day  with  them.  All  of  Cardiff's  homes 
have  become  boarding-houses  for  the  duration  of 
the  war,  and  the  hospital  kept  a  complete  list  of 
these  boarding-houses  and  constantly  referred  the 
relatives  of  patients  to  them. 

These  houses,  although  they  are  not  in  any  way 
under  government  control,  make  no  attempt  what- 
ever to  profit  from  the  misfortunes  of  their 
boarders.  Their  prices  are  moderate,  and  all  the 
comforts  of  home-life  are  extended  to  the  men 
and  women  who  stay  therein. 

In  comparison  with  Gilroy,  I  was  the  luckiest 
of  men.  Poor  fellow,  he  had  it  right.  A  shrap- 
nel bullet  had  penetrated  just  below  his  eye,  to 
come  out  at  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  he  was  one 
of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  hospital  world  at  that 
time.  But  he  seemed  to  be  in  the  best  of  spirits, 
although  constantly  living  under  the  great  shadow. 
When  I  arrived  he  had  already  been  operated 


218  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

upon  five  times,  and  both  his  nostrils  and  his 
throat  were  plugged.  He  fed  and  breathed 
through  silver  tubes,  and  to  laugh  was  tempting 
death. 

Although  our  ward  was  devoted  to  the  seri- 
ously wounded  cases,  there  was  considerable  mer- 
riment, and  as  we  grew  accustomed  to  the  luxury 
of  illness,  we  fell  back  upon  our  old  habit  of 
grousing.  The  orderlies  were  a  fruitful  field  for 
our  criticism.  They  were  never  there  when  most 
wanted.  They  were  usually  out  in  the  courtyard 
shooting  craps. 

I  remember  how  one  day,  when  one  of  the  boys 
down  the  room  had  shouted  a  particularly  laugh- 
able jest  at  a  departing  orderly,  a  jest  that  seemed 
to  tickle  Gilroy  immensely,  he  laughed  as  best  a 
man  can  laugh  who  has  a  silver  tube  for  a  throat. 
Then  he  stopped  suddenly  and  became  white  as  a 
sheet. 

"It  's  coming  on  again,"  he  mumbled,  and  all 
of  us  boys  began  calling  at  once  for  nurses  and 
orderlies,  for  we  knew  that  poor  Gilroy  was  in 
the  process  of  having  a  hemorrhage. 

The  nurses  came  running,  and  the  red  screens 
that  stood  for  danger-signals  were  drawn  around 
poor  Gilroy 's  bed.  Nurses  and  doctors  hurried 
to  and  fro.  None  of  us  slept  that  night,  despite 
orders  to  lie  back  and  forget  it  all.  It  was  not 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      219 

until  morning  that  I  myself  dropped  off.  When 
I  awoke,  my  first  question  was  for  Gilroy. 

"Oh,  he  's  all  right,"  the  nurse  told  me. 
"They  expected  to  take  him  to  the  morgue  last 
night,  but  they  didn't  have  to." 

Poor  Gilroy  seemed  to  have  as  many  lives  as 
the  proverbial  cat.  I  last  heard  from  him  about 
a  year  ago.  He  had  survived  nine  operations  and 
had  lived  two  years,  despite  all  the  Germans  had 
done  to  wipe  him  out. 

Wednesday,  the  day  set  for  my  operation, 
came  around  swiftly  enough.  I  was  all  dressed 
up  like  an  Egyptian  mummy  and  carried  down  to 
a  big  white  room  that  was  directly  underneath  our 
ward.  The  smell  of  ether  was  no  stranger  to  me. 
Indeed,  it  floated  up  from  the  operating-room  into 
our  windows  and  constantly  made  us  drowsy. 

The  operating-room  might  have  been  a  factory 
in  full  blast,  so  swiftly  were  they  rolling  men  in 
and  out.  One  chap  came  out  singing,  "It  's  a 
Hot  Time  in  the  Old  Town  To-night."  He  had 
lost  a  leg  about  three  minutes  before.  Another 
one  kept  shouting  something  about  "the  damned 
Germans,"  and  all  the  way  down  the  corridor  we 
could  hear  him  cursing  the  Germans  and  every- 
thing Teutonic. 

Amid  such  encouraging  scenes  I  was  wheeled  in, 
transferred  to  the  operating  table,  and  strapped 


220  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

down.  Then  some  sunlight,  filtering  through  a 
window,  struck  a  neat  case  of  knives.  The  order- 
lies were  polishing  and  sterilizing  them.  They 
glistened  like  no  knives  that  I  have  ever  seen  be- 
fore or  since.  I  didn't  have  much  time  to  con- 
template them,  however,  for  a  chap  with  nothing 
but  eyes  clapped  the  ether-cone  over  my  head  and 
told  me  to  do  the  impossible — breathe  naturally. 

I  took  three  or  four  breaths,  choked,  took  an- 
other and  a  deeper  breath,  and  once  again  I  was 
at  the  front,  fighting  the  Germans  in  a  hand-to- 
hand  conflict  in  no-man's-land. 

That  night  about  ten  o'clock  I  regained  con- 
sciousness. I  would  have  borne  up  bravely  under 
the  pain,  had  not  the  nurse,  in  a  moment  of  forgct- 
fulness,  told  me  that  I  could  have  a  nice  chicken 
dinner  the  next  day.  After  an  anesthetic,  even  a 
chicken  dinner  is  not  alluring.  The  mere  thought 
of  food  proved  the  straw  to  break  my  stomach's 
back,  and  for  the  next  two  or  three  hours  I  went 
through  all  the  throes  of  hospital  nausea. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  pain  and 
nervous  exhaustion  that  followed  my  operation. 
My  operation  would  be  of  no  interest  to  you,  and 
your  operation  would  be  of  no  interest  to  me,  al- 
though I  am  thoroughly  convinced  that  my  opera- 
tion and  everything  that  followed  it  was  the  most 
interesting  operation  in  the  world. 


EAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      221 

I  found,  on  discussing  operations  with  other 
chaps  in  the  hospital,  that  no  one  agreed  as  to  the 
most  dangerous  variety  or  the  most  aggravating 
or  most  painful.  One  chap  had  had  three  toes  re- 
moved on  account  of  "trench-foot,"  and  he  was 
loud  in  his  protestations  that  the  removal  of  three 
toes  was  a  terrific  operation  and  unquestionably 
the  most  interesting  amputation  in  the  category 
of  medical  science.  Poor  Gilroy,  who  probably 
could  speak  with  more  knowledge  than  any  one 
else,  merely  smiled  a  wan,  feeble  smile  and  gur- 
gled something  like  "Wait  until  you  have  gone 
through  five  of  them,  and  then  you  can  talk!" 

For  many  long  weeks  I  was  forced  to  lie  with 
my  leg  in  a  little  coop,  much  like  some  petted  pup. 
Occasionally  they  let  me  up  on  crutches,  to  wander 
about  like  a  lost  soul.  Whenever  I  went  out  to 
get  any  air  or  sunshine,  I  was  placed  on  a  wheeled 
table. 

One  of  the  blessings  of  an  English  hospital  is 
the  weekly  concert.  I  remember  one  of  these  par- 
ticularly well,  for  Phyllis  Dare,  the  soprano,  was 
scheduled,  and  I  happened  to  have  known  her  very 
well  in  London. 

All  of  the  chaps  who  were  able  to  stand  it,  were 
wheeled  out  on  the  lawn,  and  I  rested  alongside  of 
a  poor  fellow  whose  arms  and  legs  were  both  gone. 
We  were  in  the  front  row.  He  was  to  give  her  a 


222  "LADIES  FEOM  HELL" 

bouquet,  as  a  token  of  the  hospitals  appreciation 
of  her  entertainment. 

A  sadder  sight  I  have  never  seen.  Miss  Dare 
finished  her  part  of  the  program  and  walked 
over  to  the  chap  who  was  to  present  her  with  the 
flowers.  She  took  them  off  his  chest,  bent  down 
and  kissed  him,  smiled,  and  then,  womanlike,  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears,  running  away  behind  a  clump 
of  bushes  to  hide  her  confusion. 

But,  on  the  whole,  such  concerts  did  much  to 
cheer  the  fellows  and  to  make  the  endless  weeks 
of  routine  in  the  hospital  a  little  more  bearable. 

That  night,  however,  the  cheering  effect  of  the 
concert  was  blasted  by  the  departure  of  old 
"Shaggy"  Grimes.  "Shaggy"  was  a  street- 
urchin  in  his  early  days,  and  to  the  end  he  re- 
mained one  of  the  wittiest  soldiers  I  have  ever 
known.  He  seemed  possessed  of  an  indomitable 
pluck.  A  shell  had  shattered  his  shoulder,  and 
gangrene  had  set  in.  They  had  taken  his  arm  off 
at  the  elbow  first,  and  then  at  the  shoulder. 
Finally  they  had  given  him  up  as  hopeless.  But 
' '  Shaggy ' '  bore  up  under  it  with  remarkable  for- 
titude. 

Day  by  day  he  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  until 
he  was  too  far  gone  to  go  out  and  hear  the  concert 
of  Miss  Dare.  When  they  wheeled  us  back  into 
the  ward,  "Shaggy"  was  lying  half -propped  up 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH      223 

on  pillows  and  vaguely  whistling  an  indetermi- 
nate tune  to  himself.  In  answer  to  our  chaffing 
he  replied  not  a  word,  but  continued  this  endless, 
tuneless  tune.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  braced  him- 
self in  the  bed,  and  called  for  a  cigarette.  It  was 
immediately  forthcoming.  Somehow  we  sus- 
pected that  " Shaggy"  was  on  the  last  lap  of  his 
journey  to  the  Great  Beyond.  He  finished  the 
cigarette,  carefully  brushed  the  ashes  from  his 
fingers,  and  then  called  out: 

"Fellows,  I  'm  going;  and  I  'm  going  fast." 

The  next  morning  ' '  Shaggy 's ' '  bed  was  empty. 
" Shaggy"  had  gone  west. 

"Visitors'  Day"  was  another  punctuation  in 
the  hospital  sentence.  Our  ward  was  particularly 
fortunate  on  these  days,  because  we  had  a  number 
of  "arm  cases."  "Arm  cases"  are  chaps  who 
have  their  legs  and  so  can  walk.  It  is  their  duty 
on  "Visitors'  Day"  to  straggle  out  into  the  cor- 
ridor, look  lonesome,  and  corral  any  and  all  pos- 
sible visitors.  The  richer  a  ward  is  in  "arm 
cases,"  the  greater  the  number  of  "solicitors"  it 
is  likely  to  have  in  corridors,  and  the  greater  the 
number  of  visitors  it  is  assured  of  having. 

Our  visitors  were  almost  always  complete 
strangers  to  us,  although  usually  there  were  about 
fifty  per  cent,  of  them  who  came  every  "Visitors' 
Day, ' '  and  so  became  familiar  to  us.  There  were 


224  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

poor  people  and  rich  people,  and  they  all  brought 
their  little  gifts  and  delicacies  for  their  wounded 
soldiers. 

Different  ones  would  pick  out  certain  soldiers 
and  thereafter  focus  their  attentions  on  them  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  others.  A  little  six-year-old 
girl  picked  me  out  and  called  me  her  "beau." 
She  used  to  bring  me  magazines  and  newspapers, 
and,  although  she  could  hardly  spell  a  word,  she 
endeavored  to ' l  read ' '  to  me  by  the  hour.  At  first 
it  was  excruciatingly  funny,  but  it  grew  monoto- 
nous as  the  poor  child  spelled  out  word  after 
word,  so  slowly  that  I  entirely  lost  the  context  of 
a  sentence  before  she  half -finished  it. 

I  have  often  had  people  ask  me  if  the  battle- 
front  does  not  make  God  seem  a  nearer,  more  per- 
sonal being.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  know  that 
Communion  in  a  hospital  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
pressive sights  I  have  ever  witnessed.  It  is  not 
uncommon  to  see  either  a  priest  or  a  minister  giv- 
ing Communion  to  the  wounded.  The  little  red 
screens  would  be  drawn  about  the  bed,  and  some- 
how it  did  not  seem  at  all  out  of  place.  Chaps, 
who  in  their  former  life  would  rather  lose  a  finger 
than  admit  that  they  ever  went  to  church,  saw 
nothing  amiss  in  taking  Communion  in  view  of 
the  entire  ward. 

I  remember  how  one  Sunday  morning  the  Rev- 


RAIDING  A  GEEMAN  TRENCH      225 

erend  Bailey  came  in,  and  how  he  held  Communion 
for  us,  while  my  mother  knelt  by  my  bedside.  I 
wept  as  only  a  wounded  soldier  can  weep  when 
he  finds  himself  through  it  all,  done  and  com- 
pletely finished.  Yes,  the  battle-front,  though  it 
be  near  hell  itself,  is  mighty  close  to  God. 

I  might  continue  on  indefinitely  with  detailed 
descriptions  of  hospital  life,  of  its  sad  and  humor- 
ous sides,  for  it  has  many  of  both.  But,  at  best, 
hospitals  are  good  things  to  forget;  hence  I  will 
pass  on  and  over  the  monotonous  weeks  of  con- 
valescence, until  I  was  transferred  to  light  duties 
in  London. 

I  had  read  of  Zeppelin  attacks  in  the  London 
papers,  but  I  hardly  thought  that  my  first  visit 
to  London  after  my  return  from  the  front  would 
be  signalized  by  Herr  Zeppelin  and  his  doughty 
cohorts. 

I  had  just  left  the  train  at  the  depot  and  had 
taken  the  'bus.  It  was  about  ten  o  'clock  at  night. 
Suddenly,  as  I  was  passing  the  War  Office,  the 
anti-aircraft  gun  on  the  roof  crashed  out  into  the 
night,  and  far  up  in  the  sky  I  could  hear  that  fa- 
miliar, thrice-repeated  plop  of  distantly  exploding 
shrapnel. 

Simultaneously  with  the  explosion,  myriads  of 
search-lights  shot  up  into  the  night  and  wavered 


226  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

back  and  forth  like  long,  lean,  accusing  fingers. 
Gradually  they  converged,  and  five  of  them  at 
once  focused  on  a  great  sausage-like  object,  which, 
under  the  blast  of  light,  became  illuminated  until 
it  shone  like  silver. 

In  a  great  curve  the  Zeppelin  swung  over  Lon- 
don. I  alighted  from  the  'bus  at  the  Nelson  Mon- 
ument, the  better  to  observe  the  raid.  No  one 
seemed  particularly  frightened.  Perhaps  we 
would  have  been  if  we  had  known  how  close  we 
were  to  the  danger-point.  I  had  hardly  been  at 
the  base  of  the  monument  for  more  than  three 
minutes  when  there  came  a  terrific  explosion  and 
a  rush  of  air  from  about  one  hundred  yards  to  my 
right.  With  the  crash  came  a  jet  of  blue  flame 
that  seemed  to  leap  almost  as  high  as  the  Zeppe- 
lin. They  had  dropped  an  incendiary  bomb  which 
had  set  off  the  gas-main,  and  only  the  ready  action 
of  the  London  fire-department  saved  the  city  from 
a  nasty  conflagration  at  this  time. 

After  a  shivering  half -hour  of  expectation,  the 
horrible  failed  to  happen  and  the  raid  was  re- 
ported to  be  over.  As  usual,  little  or  no  military 
damage  had  been  done,  and  London  settled  back 
into  the  humdrum  harness  of  its  usual  tasks. 

After  serving  for  some  time  in  the  lighter  jobs 
about  headquarters,  I  was  finally  given  my  dis- 


RAIDING  A  GERMAN  TRENCH       227 

charge,  as  it  soon  became  apparent  that  I  could 
not  stand  either  long  marches  or  much  standing, 
owing  to  a  badly  injured  tendon  in  my  foot  and 
calf.  And  so,  on  January  21,  1916,  I  embarked 
for  America. 


CHAPTER  X 

WHO    WILL   WIN    THE    WAR — AND   HOW 

I  ARRIVED  in  America  some  little  time  before 
your  country  entered  the  war. 

During  the  past  year  or  more,  as  an  ex-soldier, 
I  have  been  called  upon  to  travel  about  consider- 
ably, arid  have  had  an  opportunity  to  talk  with 
many  and  to  observe  widely.  With  the  battle- 
front  ever  fresh  in  my  mind,  I  cannot  help  con- 
trasting militant  America  with  war-time  London. 

In  the  course  of  my  travels  I  am  asked  the  same 
old  question  a  dozen  times  a  day.  It  is  always 
this: 

"When  will  the  war  stop,  and  how  will  it  stop!'* 

Here  are  really  two  questions  which  only  a  fool 
would  pretend  to  answer.  Anything  that  I  may 
say  will  be  only  my  personal  opinion,  and  my  only 
authority  will  be  my  experience  on  the  firing-line 
and  my  close  intimacy  with  America  and  her 
people. 

There  is  not  one  iota  of  doubt  in  my  mind  as  to 
who  will  win  this  war.  There  was  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  as  to  the  ultimate  winner  from  the  moment 

228 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR          229 

that  the  news  flashed  back  to  London  of  the  won- 
derful stand  taken  by  our  London  Scottish  on 
Hallowe'en  Night.  Ultimately  the  Allies — and 
you  are  one  of  us — will  win,  and  it  will  be  no 
''Peace  without  Victory." 

Immediately  the  pessimists — we  need  pessi- 
mists in  order  to  keep  our  proper  mental  bal- 
ance— will  arise  and  sketch  a  picture  something 
after  this  fashion: 

"Germany  is  to-day  the  winner.  Territorially 
she  has  gained  twice,  yes,  thrice  as  much  as  was 
originally  called  for  by  her  ambitious  program 
of  militarism.  To-day  Germany  controls  a  vast 
and  fertile  territory  which  is  far  preferable  to 
her  and  far  more  precious  than  her  malaria-ridden 
colonies  in  Africa  and  elsewhere." 

Yes,  I  will  agree  that  to-day  Germany  is  a  win- 
ner in  so  far  as  territorial  aggrandizement  is  con- 
cerned. But  the  war  has  only  begun.  It  has  only 
passed  through  the  first  two  of  its  three  phases. 
Back  when  I  knew  the  smell  of  smoke  and  powder 
w^e  were  nearing  the  end  of  the  first  phase,  the 
phase  of  retreat,  of  "strategical  retreat"  made 
famous  and  ludicrous  by  Hindenburg.  During 
this  period  England  and  France  were  gather- 
ing their  forces  and  were  exercising  their  muscles 
in  preparation  for  the  struggle  to  come. 

Then  came  the  second  phase,  when  these  new- 


230  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

found  muscles  tightened  and  the  line  held,  and 
Germany  stopped  advancing.  We  are  now  in  the 
last  stages  of  the  second  phase.  We  now  know 
that  those  bands  of  men  and  steel  which  surround 
Germany  can  hold  her  indefinitely,  forever,  if 
necessary. 

The  third  and  final  stage  of  the  war  is  approach- 
ing, when  the  strength  which  we  have  been  build- 
ing up  during  these  years  will  be  expended  in  a 
mighty  spring  that  will  stop  little  short  of  Berlin 
itself. 

This  third  stage  may  continue  as  long  or  longer 
than  the  first  two  stages  combined,  but  it  is  near, 
and  Germany  knows  it  is  near. 

I  have  said  that  I  knew  the  ultimate  winner 
from  the  beginning.  I  knew  it  far  better  after  I 
had  fought  the  German  and  tested  his  spirit. 
What  wins  a  war?  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  fighter, 
reinforced  by  the  spirit  of  the  people  back  home 
and  by  the  mechanical  aids  of  your  munition  fac- 
tories. The  German  fighter  is  lacking  in  this 
spirit. 

Do  not  misunderstand  me.  The  German  is  a 
splendid,  a  tremendous  fighter,  but  only  when  he 
is  fighting  en  masse.  Individually,  he  is  a  coward 
at  heart,  and  has  none  of  the  righteous  anger  be- 
hind him  that  inspires  the  Allied  soldiers.  He 
fights  because  he  is  ordered  to  fight,  because  he 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAE         231 

will  face  certain  death  if  he  does  not  fight.  His 
arm  is  not  steeled  by  the  cry  of  humanity  nor  by 
the  cries  of  murdered  women  and  children. 

It  is  because  the  German  does  not  fight  for  the 
love  of  righteous  fighting,  but  because  he  is  or- 
dered to  fight,  that  I  know  we  Allies  will  win.  It 
is  not  in  the  book  that  the  Germans  shall  come  out 
victorious.  It  was  not  in  the  book  when  a  mere 
handful  of  British  stood  off  the  German  hosts  at 
the  Battle  of  Mons. 

The  ultimate  victor  in  this  war  was  forecast 
when  the  French  forced  back  the  German  hordes 
at  the  Marne.  When  the  Germans  made  their 
drive  on  Calais  and  failed,  the  victor  of  this  strug- 
gle was  again  foretold.  When  the  Belgian  ports 
failed  to  fall  into  German  hands  through  Ypres, 
the  ultimate  victor  was  once  more  prophesied. 

Germany's  early  drive  through  Russia  failed; 
at  Verdun  she  failed ;  in  Italy  she  failed.  Always 
she  falls  short.  And  why? 

Germany  to-day  fights  as  a  machine,  and  ma- 
chines have  their  limitations.  Germany's  sol- 
diers fight  as  machines.  There  is  none  of  the 
spirit  in  the  German  soldier  to  drive  him  on 
against  tremendous  odds.  Had  there  been  this 
spirit  at  the  Marne,  at  the  Mons,  at  Verdun,  or 
at  Calais,  Germany  would  have  been  the  vic- 
tor to-day,  and  England,  France,  Italy,  and 


232  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

America,  too,  would  at  this  moment  be  out- 
stretched in  prayer  before  the  feet  of  WUhelm  der 
Grosse. 

Germany  to-day  is  in  a  steel  cage,  and  the  bars 
are  slowly  closing  round  her,  as  did  the  walls  of 
Poe  's  horrid  chamber.  Behind  those  walls,  push- 
ing them  closer  and  closer,  stand  the  upraised 
hands  of  all  civilized  humanity.  These  hands  are 
steeled  by  necessity,  for,  should  the  Germans  win 
by  fluke  or  otherwise,  the  world  from  that  day 
forward  would  become  a  tool,  an  abased  tool,  of 
German  treachery  and  bribe. 

The  civilized  world,  whether  or  not  it  has  for- 
mally enlisted  on  the  side  of  the  Allies,  realizes 
this  to-day.  England  must  fight  on,  because, 
should  she  stop  and  should  Germany  become  the 
ultimate  victor,  England's  sea-power  would  be 
taken  away.  With  it  would  go  England.  Com- 
mercially, she  would  be  subjected  to  the  point  of 
extinction.  France  is  steeled  by  dire  necessity, 
for,  should  Germany  win,  there  would  be  no  more 
France. 

And  you  Americans!  Why  will  you  fight  on 
and  on  when  your  time  comes,  as  we  are  now 
fighting!  Because,  should  Germany  win,  you 
know  as  well  as  I  where  her  greedy  eyes  would 
gaze.  She  does  not  want  crowded  England.  She 
would  be  amply  repaid,  were  England  merely 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR         233 

forced  to  pay  tribute  to  her  iron  heel  of  the  future. 
Germany  wants  a  place  in  which  she  may  expand, 
where  her  people  may  grow  and  grow,  until  by 
sheer  force  of  numbers  der  Deutschland  covers 
the  earth.  She  cannot  grow  in  England.  There 
is  none  too  much  space  in  France  or  in  any  sunny 
spot  in  Europe.  But  no  one  knows  better  than 
you  the  colossal  opportunities  for  growth  and 
advancement  in  your  own  America. 

South  America,  by  evasion  of  the  Monroe  Doc- 
trine, has  already  become  thoroughly  Germanized 
commercially  and  to  a  large  extent  educationally. 
Germany  can  absorb  South  America  without  South 
America  becoming  cognizant  of  the  fact.  Until 
this  war  and  the  resultant  hatred  which  it  en- 
gendered, Germany  could  foresee  in  the  near  fu- 
ture the  domination,  the  absorption  of  South 
America  practically,  if  not  politically. 

The  only  spot  remaining  on  this  earth  worth 
the  seeking  is  your  own  land,  and  you  may  rest 
assured  that,  should  Germany  win  the  war,  it  will 
be  at  your  fertile  fields  and  teeming  cities  that  the 
kaiser  will  point  his  Judas 's  finger. 

Of  course  you  know  all  this.  I  have  merely 
been  rehearsing  an  old,  old  story.  But  you  do 
not  realize  it  in  its  full  truth  and  strength.  Like 
the  descriptions  of  a  city  in  your  geography  of 
school-days,  it  is  nothing  but  black  type.  It  lacks 


234  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

the  life  and  truth  which  an  actual  visit  to  that 
city  would  bring.  Some  day,  perhaps,  when  your 
first  casualties  come  across  to  you  in  terrific  num- 
bers, when  war  reaches  its  hand  into  your  home 
and  your  neighbor's  home,  perhaps  then  you  will 
realize  the  full  truth  of  what  I  have  been  saying 
and  the  possibilities  that  await  you  should  Ger- 
many prove  the  ultimate  victor.  Only  when  you 
realize  this  will  America  be  in  the  war  as  Eng- 
land is,  as  France  is,  as  Italy  is — in  the  war  until 
our  soldiers  address  their  mail,  "Somewhere  in 
Germany." 

Who  will  win  the  war? 

Let  me  answer  the  question  in  this  way.  Place 
yourselves  in  the  grandstand  of  a  race-course. 
Before  you  stretch  two  tracks,  one  smooth  and 
straight,  the  other  tortuous,  filled  with  rubbish 
and  debris,  cross-hatched  with  ditches.  On  the 
smooth  track  runs  a  sleek  horse,  trained  to  the 
last  minute,  with  a  handicap  of  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  in  its  favor.  That  horse  is  Germany.  On 
the  other  track  runs  a  black  horse,  driven  by  an 
amateur.  At  the  start  the  dark  horse  is  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  behind  its  sleek  antagonist,  but  grad- 
ually, despite  the  disadvantages,  it  decreases  the 
distance  between  itself  and  its  competitor  until 
at  the  half-mile  post  the  horses  are  neck  and  neck. 
Which  is  the  better  horse? 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAE         235 

Germany,  with  forty  years  of  preparation  and 
training,  after  four  years  of  war  finds  herself 
only  neck  and  neck  with  her  amateur  antagonist 
who  is  running  the  race  amid  the  pitfalls  and 
perils  of  the  struggle  itself.  Under  these  con- 
ditions which  is  the  better  horse,  the  one  with 
forty  years  of  training  or  the  dark  horse,  driven 
by  an  amateur,  who  has  equaled  the  record  of  its 
antagonist  at  only  the  half-mile  post?  Which  is 
the  better  horse,  and  on  which  horse  will  you  place 
your  money? 

It  is  because  we  Allies  are  beating  Germany  at 
her  own  game,  despite  untold  difficulties  in  our 
path,  that  I  unquestionably  predict  the  ultimate 
victory  of  the  Allied  armies.  This  victory  will 
come  through  no  collapse  of  the  German  nation. 
Ultimate  victory  will  be  won,  in  all  probability,  by 
sheer  force  of  arms. 

Germany  to-day  is  surrounded  by  her  armies, 
concreted  into  trenches  that  stretch  for  miles  and 
miles  behind  her  front  line.  We  will  have  to  blast 
them  back,  sometimes  inch  by  inch. 

To-day,  so  I  am  reliably  informed,  there  is  a 
gun — and  by  this  I  do  not  mean  a  rifle,  but  a 
machine-gun  or  one  of  larger  caliber — every  nine 
feet  along  the  Allied  front.  Before  this  war  can 
be  won  these  mouths  of  steel  must  lock  their 
wheels  and  stretch  from  Calais  almost  to  Con- 


236  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

stantinople,  a  solid  line  of  protest  against  the 
dream  of  Attila. 

All  this  will  take  time.  All  this  will  take  am- 
munition in  abundance.  To  guide  and  direct  the 
fire  of  this  steel-tongued  line  will  take  the  aid  of 
hundreds,  yes,  hundreds  of  thousands  of  aero- 
planes. To  build  them  and  to  train  the  aviators 
will  take  time.  To  build  up  reserve  stores  of 
ammunition,  fitted  for  days  and  weeks  of  solid 
shelling,  will  take  time. 

But  in  the  meantime  Germany  is  growing 
weaker.  Father  Time  is  on  the  side  of  the  Allies. 
Meanwhile  Germany  is  the  losing  winner.  She 
cannot  advance,  and  she  faces  an  ultimate  defeat 
as  slow,  but  as  certain,  as  death  itself. 

Her  submarine,  which  she  has  held  up  to  her 
believing  and  gullible  populace,  will  shortly  gasp 
out  its  last  flickering  breath  of  life.  It  may  cling 
to  existence  tenaciously,  it  may  linger  on  indefi- 
nitely, but  its  weight  in  the  scales  of  victory  will 
become  ever  more  negligible.  Germany's  subma- 
rine hopes  were  built  on  a  false  conception.  At 
first  she  thought  that  by  torpedoing  ships  she 
would  frighten  the  seamen  from  their  duty.  In 
this  belief  she  erred.  Then  by  sinking  sperlos 
versinkt,  or  "without  leaving  any  trace,"  she 
thought  to  reinforce  the  horror  of  her  submarine 
and  to  inspire  in  all  seafaring  men  such  a  terror 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR         237 

of  her  "frightf ulness"  that  they  would  refuse  to 
man  the  ships.  England  would  thus  be  starved, 
and  America  would  be  cut  off  from  all  participa- 
tion in  the  war.  In  this  belief  she  likewise  erred, 
but  not  without  extending  "frightf ulness"  to  its 
uttermost  limits. 

Can  you  Americans  imagine  anything  more  hor- 
rible than  sinking  a  peaceful,  neutral  ship  laden 
with  inoffensive  men  and  women!  Germans  can. 
They  can  sink  such  a  ship,  and  then  the  subma- 
rine commander  can  climb  out  upon  his  little  con- 
ning-tower  and  direct  the  life-boats  to  gather  to- 
gether and  to  link  themselves  with  rope,  so  that 
he  may  the  better  ' '  tow  them  nearer  land. ' '  Then 
the  German  submarine  commander  can  tie  one  end 
of  this  hawser  to  his  damnable  craft  and  submerge 
for  fifty  or  one  hundred  feet,  towing  the  entire 
company  down  to  an  icy  depth  below  the  billows 
of  the  North  Sea. 

But  even  this  hell-born  program  failed,  and 
to-day  the  submarine  is  gasping  out  its  life.  It 
is  proving  merely  a  tonic  to  recruiting  in  Eng- 
land and  in  your  country.  It  is  proving  a  boom- 
erang to  Germany.  It  has  aroused  the  world 
against  Germany  as  nothing  else  could,  and  it  will 
ultimately  go  the  way  of.  the  Zeppelin,  a  proven 
failure  so  far  as  military  effectiveness  is  con- 
cerned. 


238  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

There  are  those  who  would  like  to  see  the  end  of 
this  war  come  quickly  through  a  Germany  starved 
into  subjection.  I,  too,  would  like  to  hold  out 
this  hope,  but  I  cannot.  Germany  to-day  has  un- 
der cultivation,  with  truly  Teutonic  efficiency,  a 
tremendous  acreage  of  land.  This  is  being  culti- 
vated by  her  womenfolk,  whom  she  has  trained 
through  generations  of  hard  labor  to  withstand 
the  rigors  of  agricultural  work.  Her  transporta- 
tion facilities,  while  somewhat  weakened  by  the 
enormous  strain  of  war,  are  still  able  to  carry 
sufficient  sustenance  to  keep  her  people  breathing 
and  working.  Germany  can,  and  probably  will, 
fight  on  until  her  people  realize  the  utter  idiocy 
of  it  aU. 

But  will  they  ever  realize  it?  That  brings  to 
mind  the  eternal  question,  "Will  Germany  become 
a  democracy?"  I  believe  that  she  will,  but  not 
until  this  war  is  over.  The  force  that  will  de- 
mocratize Germany  will  be  the  flash  of  bayonets 
in  Berlin,  Allied  bayonets.  You  need  not  look 
for  an  insurrection  in  Germany  until  that  hour. 

To-day  the  German  people  are  doped  with  a 
hypodermic  of  egotism.  They  have  no  more  idea 
of  their  losses  than  has  a  native  of  the  Fiji  Isles. 
No  black  clothing  or  crape  is  permitted  to  be 
worn  in  Germany,  for  the  wearing  thereof  would 
disclose  the  losses,  and  the  Teuton  War  Office 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR         239 

does  not  care  to  have  the  people  know  how  heav- 
ily they  are  suffering. 

Germany  does  not  publish  a  list  of  her  dead 
and  wounded.  If  you  have  a  relative  or  a  friend 
in  the  German  army,  you  must  go  to  a  " bureau" 
and  inquire  privately  to  ascertain  his  fate.  The 
aborted  brain  which  planned  this  war  took  good 
care  to  see  that  its  cost  should  be  hidden  from  the 
people.  And  not  its  cost  in  men  alone,  but  in 
money,  likewise,  for  the  German  system  of  financ- 
ing this  war  is  based  on  a  clear  scheme  of  robbing 
Peter  to  pay  Paul,  and  then  robbing  Paul  to  pay 
Peter  back  again.  Both  robberies  are  accom- 
plished with  the  utmost  skill  and  despatch,  so 
that  the  victim  never  realizes  it  and  remains 
dreaming  as  pleasantly  as  the  Chinese  opium 
smoker. 

You  need  look  for  no  insurrection  in  Germany, 
because  the  German  people  do  not  know  what  is 
happening  to-day.  My  sister  was  governess  to 
the  children  of  Count  von  Billow.  She  was  in  Ger- 
many until  six  months  after  the  declaration  of 
war,  and  when  she  returned  she  was  tremendously 
surprised  to  see  that  London  was  not  a  mass  of 
ashes.  She  was  also  agreeably  shocked  to  learn 
that  the  English  fleet  had  not  been  wiped  out,  as 
she  and  the  German  people  had  been  led  to  sup- 
pose. 


240  "LADIES  FROM  HELL*' 

Germans  to-day  believe  that  they  are  the  un- 
questioned victors,  and  they  cannot  understand 
why  the  Allies  persist  so  eternally.  Can  you 
blame  them,  when  they  think  that  London  is  gone, 
that  the  British  fleet  is  vanquished,  that  England 
is  subjected? 

When  my  own  kith  and  kin  believed  these  things 
after  only  a  few  months  in  Germany,  what  must 
the  true  native-born  German  believe,  who  has  fed 
upon  this  Teuton  camouflage  since  babyhood  ? 

Furthermore,  there  is  no  one  within  the  German 
Empire  to  start  an  insurrection.  Bare  hands  can- 
not push  back  bayonets,  and  as  long  as  the  Teu- 
ton army  remains  loyal  through  habit  or  terror, 
so  long  will  Germnay  remain  an  autocracy. 

Germany  combats  disloyalty  in  her  army  by 
shifting  troops  back  and  forth  so  rapidly  from 
one  front  to  another  that  no  spirit  of  dissension 
has  a  chance  to  spring  up  and  thrive.  Any  spo- 
radic mutinies  are  but  chance  happenings,  and  I 
am  frank  to  admit  that  they  might  occur  in  almost 
any  army  or  navy,  except  one  whose  men  fight  not 
for  a  fetish  of  militarism,  but  for  a  great,  good, 
and  just  cause. 

But  when  the  German  army  discovers  that  Lon- 
don is  not  a  smouldering  heap  of  ashes,  that  the 
English  fleet  is  not  covered  with  barnacles  at  the 
bottom  of  the  North  Sea,  that  the  band  of  steel 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR         241 

which  now  surrounds  them  has  tightened  until 
their  own  cities  are  at  stake,  they  will  at  the  same 
time  awaken  to  the  fact  that  they  have  been 
drugged  and  misguided  by  a  self-seeking  aris- 
tocracy. Then  Germany,  all  Germany,  will  turn 
like  wolves  at  bay,  and  democracy  will  replace 
autocracy,  perhaps  with  the  suddenness  and  en- 
thusiasm that  characterized  the  same  change  in 
Russia. 

In  the  meantime,  with  all  due  respect  to  your 
President,  I  would  like  to  take  issue  with  his  state- 
ment that  we  are  fighting  not  the  German  people, 
but  the  German  ruling  class.  Permit  me  to  use 
a  homely  simile  and  to  ask  a  homely  question.  If 
you  were  walking  down  a  street  and  a  dog  ran  out 
to  bite  you,  and  did  bite  you,  would  you  vent  your 
spleen  solely  on  the  owner  of  the  dog,  or  would 
you  turn  your  hatred  on  the  dog  itself? 

The  German  people  to-day  are  the  dogs,  and 
they  are  playing  the  part  of  the  dog.  It  is  the 
frightfulness  of  the  people  that  kills  us.  It  may 
have  been  conceived  in  the  Wilhelmstrasse  or 
among  the  pleasant  forests  of  the  kaiser's  own 
preserves,  but,  mark  you,  it  is  the  German  people 
who  perpetrate  the  atrocities.  It  is  the  common, 
middle-class  women  of  Germany  who  delight  in 
holding  a  cup  of  water  to  the  parched  lips  of  a 
wounded  Ally  soldier,  only  to  dash  it  away  and 


242  " LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

spit  in  his  face  in  derision.  It  is  the  German 
people  who  cut  our  soldiers'  throats  from  ear  to 
ear  and  who  give  no  mercy,  though  they  beg  for 
it  so  vehemently  when  cornered. 

Our  problem  to-day  may  be  to  wipe  out  German 
autocracy,  but  the  only  way  to  do  it  is  to  march 
straight  through  solid  columns  of  autocracy-drunk 
troops,  the  German  people,  sodden  with  years  of 
training  under  German  propaganda. 

My  experience  in  the  trenches  would  indicate 
that  we  need  worry  little  about  Kaiser  Wilhelm 
or  his  sons.  They  are  safe,  far  to  the  rear.  It 
is  the  people  of  Germany  who  gave  me  my  wound, 
and  it  is  the  people  whom  we  must  first  extermi- 
nate before  junkerdom  will  fall. 

Only  because  the  Germans  have  proven  them- 
selves such  willing  victims  of  the  propaganda  of 
the  Wilhelmstrasse  can  you  blame  them.  Even 
here  in  America,  in  your  own  United  States,  you 
see  the  willingness  of  some  Germans  to  lay  aside 
all  rules  of  war  and  love  in  their  mad  efforts  to 
further  the  progress  of  autocracy.  You  hear  a 
great  deal  about  pro-Germans  in  your  country  to- 
day, and  you  worry  much  about  them.  Person- 
ally, I  feel  sorry  for  any  man  who  may  rightly 
be  called  a  pro-German. 

The  pro-German  to-day  is  a  man  without  a  coun- 
try. In  your  land  he  is  detested,  and  in  Germany 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR         243 

he  is  hated  with  a  hatred  that  knows  no  bounds, 
for  he  failed  to  deliver  your  country,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  into  the  outstretched  palms  of  the  kaiser. 
The  pro-German  failed  to  give  Germany  sufficient 
funds  with  which  to  carry  on  the  war.  Not  only 
that,  but  there  are  other  crimes  laid  against  him. 
He  failed  to  enlist  in  the  German  army,  as  he 
should  have  done,  and  he  failed  to  send  his  sons 
to  enlist.  Then,  last  and  most  terrible  of  all,  he 
failed  to  split  your  United  States  asunder.  All 
this  he  should  have  done,  had  he  been  a  true  Ger- 
man. But  he  proved  false  to  his  trust,  and,  like 
Judas  of  old,  he  is  hated  for  his  falsity  by  every 
true  German. 

Therefore,  the  man  who  calls  himself  a  pro- 
German  is  a  fool.  He  is  not  wanted  in  any  civil- 
ized land  to-day.  When  this  war  is  over  there 
will  be  no  land  big  enough  to  hold  him.  His  own 
country  will  disown  him,  and  every  other  country 
on  the  face  of  the  globe  will  brand  him  with  the 
mark  of  Cain.  The  pro-German  of  to-day  had 
best  get  on  the  winning  side,  not  only  openly  and 
in  public,  but  in  his  own  chamber  as  well.  If 
for  no  other  reason  than  a  selfish  one,  he  will  find 
it  wise  to  align  himself  with  the  forces  of  de- 
mocracy. 

I  have  said  that  we  Allies  will  win  the  war. 
Let  me  carry  that  one  step  farther.  Every  build- 


244  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

ing,  no  matter  how  huge,  has  its  foundation  and 
corner-stone,  and  the  foundation  and  corner-stone 
of  an  Allied  victory  is  not  your  man  in  the  trench, 
your  picturesque  flag-bearer,  nor  your  gilded  gen- 
eral. It  is  the  unromantic,  toil-stained,  oil-bespat- 
tered laboring  man  back  home. 

In  Washington  to-day  they  say  that  six  and 
one  half  men  are  required  to  support  each  fight- 
ing man.  This  being  the  case,  when  you  get  your 
five  million  men  over  on  the  fighting-line,  you  will 
require  some  thirty-two  and  one  half  million  men 
to  support  them.  In  other  words,  thirty-eight 
million  men  will  be  withdrawn  from  normal  pur- 
suits. 

There  are  in  your  country,  I  believe,  only  forty- 
five  million  men  between  the  ages  of  18  and  45. 
With  thirty-eight  million  of  them  devoting  their 
energies  to  war-time  industry,  you  will  have  but 
seven  million  to  carry  on  the  petty  affairs  of  peace- 
ful times.  In  short,  some  eighty  per  cent,  of  your 
laboring  men  will  be  directing  their  energies 
trenchward,  and  it  will  require  all  their  energies 
throughout  every  moment  of  the  day. 

You  have  no  idea, — you  who  have  tasted  of  war 
so  lightly, — of  the  tremendous  demands  of  a  mod- 
ern "drive."  Only  a  short  time  ago  we  British- 
ers, on  a  twenty-mile  front  during  a  four-day  of- 
fensive, fired  more  than  eleven  million  shells. 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR         245 

Compare  to-day's  struggle  in  its  hugeness  with 
your  own  great  battles  of  the  Civil  War.  Your 
General  Sherman,  during  his  famous  march  from 
Atlanta  to  the  sea,  carried  as  his  total  supply  of 
ammunition  only  as  many  rounds  for  each  field- 
piece  as  a  modern  French  "seventy-five"  would 
fire  away  in  some  seven  minutes. 

Perhaps  you  will  glean  from  this  some  little 
inkling  of  the  enormity  of  the  front-line's  appe- 
tite. And  every  one  of  these  requirements  come 
from  the  hands  of  the  unromantic  laboring  man. 
He  is  the  one  who  holds  the  balance  of  victory  to- 
day. 

The  side,  irrespective  of  right  or  wrong,  which 
can  longest  keep  her  laboring  men  working  at 
their  mightiest,  will  be  the  side  to  win.  Germany 
to-day  would  be  much  farther  back  than  she  is, 
had  there  been  a  sufficient  supply  of  shells  at  our 
command,  and  we  will  not  blast  her  forces  back- 
ward until  our  supply  of  shells  and  artillery  is 
doubled,  tripled,  yes,  quadrupled. 

All  this  spells  only  one  thing — labor.  It  is  the 
laboring  man  who  must  decide  to-day  whether  or 
not  he  pleases  in  the  future  to  serve  as  the  tool 
of  German  autocracy  or  as  the  free  servant  of  a 
free  democracy.  It  is  the  laboring  man,  and  he 
alone,  who  will  put  us  in  Berlin.  Our  air  fleets, 
our  ship-building  programme,  our  everything, 


246  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

hang  upon  his  beck  and  nod.  Will  he  prove  true 
to  this  mighty  trust?  He  can  make  his  bed  as  he 
wills — to-day. 

And  here  I  must  risk  your  displeasure  by  criti- 
cism. But  before  I  do  so  let  me  say  that  I  know 
you  will  find  the  solution  of  the  problem  that  now 
besets  you.  We  had  the  same  problem  in  Eng- 
land and  throughout  the  British  Empire  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war.  But  we  solved  it ;  Germany 
helped  us  with  her  "Zepps."  To-day  you  face 
the  selfsame  problem;  to-day  you  are  only  "mud- 
dling through. ' ' 

In  England  at  this  moment  there  is  hardly  a  soul 
who  is  not  keenly  alive  to  the  tremendous  impor- 
tance of  labor.  You  already  know  that  over  a 
million  women  are  working  in  our  munition-fac- 
tories, but  do  you  know  that  these  women  are  not 
"working  women"  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word.  They  are  women  of  the  middle,  yes,  the 
higher  classes.  Some  work  eight  hours  a  day; 
others  leave  their  babies  at  kindergartens  and 
work  for  three  or  four  hours  before  returning  to 
feed  their  children,  and  then  return  to  work  again. 
In  the  department-stores,  in  all  walks  of  life,  you 
find  society-women  working  as  waitresses,  as 
clerks,  and  as  stenographers.  There  is  hardly  a 
woman  in  Great  Britain  to-day  who  is  shameless 
enough  to  say  that  she  does  not  work  for  her  liv- 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR         247 

ing.  I  know  of  men  high  up  in  the  commercial 
life  of  our  land,  men  who  before  the  war  had  un- 
numbered automobiles  and  whose  houses  are  pa- 
latial mansions,  who  to-day  take  it  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  their  wives  and  daughters  should 
work  either  in  their  own  offices  or  in  the  stores  or 
shops  of  England. 

In  short,  every  soul  in  England  to-day  is  alive 
to  the  tremendous  necessity  for  conserving  labor 
and  for  making  the  utmost  of  every  hour  of  the 
day.  Every  energy  in  England  is  devoted  toward 
only  one  thing — the  winning  of  the  war. 

Those  fur-clad  women  who  go  down  at  nine  in 
the  morning  to  serve  as  clerks  in  the  department- 
stores  of  London  do  not  do  it  for  sweet  charity's 
sake.  They  do  not  brag  melodiously  of  the  num- 
ber of  sweaters  they  have  knitted  or  the  number 
of  socks  they  have  presented  to  our  soldiers.  All 
that  is  taken  for  granted ;  it  is  only  natural.  They 
do  not  even  brag  of  the  fact  that  they  work.  It 
is  only  the  natural  and  normal  thing  to  do  in 
England  to-day. 

Contrast  this  with  your  country.  I  am  a  little 
amused  at  times  to  hear  your  women — and  your 
men,  too — tell  of  their  mighty  deeds  of  valor. 
Can  you  blame  me?  I  come  from  a  land  where 
every  nerve  is  strained  to  its  utmost  to  win  the 
war.  I  come  to  a  land  where  the  uttermost 


248  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

bounds  of  patriotism  seem  to  be  the  purchase  of 
Liberty  Bonds  or  the  knitting  of  socks.  Wait 
until  you  get  into  it,  my  good  friends,  and  then 
you  will  know  why  I  smile  a  little  sadly  to  myself 
as  I  compare  England  of  to-day  with  your  own 
United  States.  It  is  an  unfair  comparison,  per- 
haps, and,  anyway,  you  are  not  to  be  blamed. 
You  are  at  war  only  diplomatically  and  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  physically.  You  are  not  at  war  spir- 
itually, and  for  this  you  are  in  no  way  at  fault. 

There  are  a  number  of  reasons  for  your  pres- 
ent state  of  coma.  In  the  first  place,  you  never 
really  went  to  war.  You  just  drifted  warward. 
You  just  oozed  into  the  war.  You  were  told  be- 
fore you  declared  war  that  you  were  "  drifting 
into  a  world  aflame."  But  so  slowly  did  you 
progress  from  peace  to  war  that  the  process  occa- 
sioned you  no  discomfort  or  mental  torture  en 
route. 

Furthermore,  the  war  is  a  long  way  off  from 
you.  Its  horrors  are  as  yet  unreal.  They  are  a 
thing  apart  from  you,  just  as  they  were  in  Eng- 
land sit  first.  Some  day  war  will  become  a  stern 
reality  to  you.  It  will  burst  in  on  you,  and  then 
the  purchase  of  a  Liberty  Bond  or  the  knitting 
of  a  sweater  will  cease  to  be  the  apex  of  your 
patriotism. 

There  is  still  another  reason  why  your  people 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR         249 

are  not  yet  fully  cognizant  of  this  war.  You 
lacked  a  psychological  moment  for  its  declaration. 
Every  war  which  you  have  had  to  date  has  been 
declared  when  some  incident  has  aroused  your 
imagination  and  stung  your  fury.  In  1898  you 
had  your  Maine,  and  behind  your  armies,  surging 
southward,  rose  the  battle-cry,  "  Remember  the 
Maine!"  In  1861  you  had  your  Sumter  and 
your  Bull  Run,  and  the  mob  was  stung  by  the  in- 
sult to  their  flag.  Even  your  Revolutionary  fore- 
fathers had  their  little  "Tea-Party"  down  in  Bos- 
ton. 

In  short,  if  you  will  scan  the  horizon  of  demo- 
cratic wars,  you  will  usually  find  some  incident 
which  has  set  off  the  bombshell  of  popular  wrath 
and  goaded  your  nation  into  action. 

But  this  war  had  no  such  psychological  mo- 
ment, no  such  bombshell  to  fire  the  public  pulse. 
When  the  Lusitania  sank  was  the  one  large  and 
thriving  psychological  moment.  But  for  per- 
fectly legitimate  reasons  you  postponed  action  at 
that  time.  Had  you  declared  war  then,  I  fully 
believe  that  one  hundred  million  raving  maniacs 
would  have  risen  up,  and  only  a  little  heat,  ap- 
plied at  intervals,  would  have  kept  you  fighting 
hot  while  your  swords  were  being  forged  from 
plowshares. 

But  you  did  not  declare  war  then,  and  in  the  in- 


250  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

tervening  time  your  righteous  anger  petered  away 
and  left  you  cold  and  calloused  to  the  lesser  shocks 
that  ensued.  Then,  when  you  did  declare  war, 
you  declared  it  long  after  the  psychological  mo- 
ment for  its  declaration  had  passed.  You  had 
lost  interest  in  the  thing,  and,  as  a  result,  to  this 
d5y  you  are  at  war  only  mentally  and  diplomat- 
ically. You  are  not  at  war  spiritually.  You  are 
not  willing  to  give  and  give  and  keep  on  giving. 
Your  emotions  still  need  to  be  aroused,  for  the 
emotions  of  a  people  are  not  negligible  assets; 
they  are  not  valueless.  NO! 

What  was  it  stood  off  the  Teuton  hordes  at 
Mons,  at  the  Marne,  and  at  Verdun?  Was  it  the 
scanty  stream  of  shells  and  shrapnel?  It  was 
not.  It  was  the  emotions  of  the  men  in  our 
trenches.  It  was  the  emotions  of  the  men  back 
home.  It  was  the  emotions  of  the  women  who 
gave  the  men. 

What  America  needs  to-day  is  what  England 
needed  during  the  first  months  of  the  war — some- 
thing to  fire  the  imagination,  to  arouse  the  popu- 
lar fury.  What  America  needs  above  all  else  is 
some  one  who  will  snatch  a  brand  from  the  fire 
across  the  sea  and  pass  it  on  to  the  hands  and 
hearts  and  homes  of  the  American  nation.  Such 
a  man  will  do  more  good  than  he  who  builds  a 
hundred  ships  or  makes  a  hundred  thousand  shells, 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR          251 

for  he  will  make  America  fighting  mad,  from  boot- 
black to  banker,  and  resolved  to  do  her  utmost, 
utterly  regardless  of  the  price. 

I  criticize,  though  I  realize  full  well  that  to-day 
there  are  those  who  look  upon  the  critic  as  close 
kin  to  the  pro-German.  Your  country  has  been 
besieged  with  critics.  You  have  had  so  many  of 
them  that  they  have  deafened  your  ears  to  all 
criticism,  be  it  constructive  or  destructive.  This 
is  not  the  right  condition.  Your  great  republic 
was  built  upon  the  rock  of  public  criticism,  and 
the  man  who  silences  criticism  to-day  is  strangling 
the  very  thing  that  gave  your  nation  birth. 

But  no  nation,  least  of  all  your  own,  in  times 
such  as  these  has  room  for  the  critic  who  brings 
no  constructive  suggestion  with  him.  I  hope  to 
extricate  myself  from  this  class,  not  alone  for 
selfish  reasons,  but  because  I  hope  to  bring  just 
a  wee  message  to  America,  a  message  culled  from 
my  knowledge  of  England  and  the  Allied  fighting- 
line. 

To-day  I  think  you  will  agree  with  me  when  I 
repeat  that  few  of  you  are  at  war  in  aught  but  a 
diplomatic  and  physical  sense.  You  are  not  at 
war  emotionally.  In  your  saner  moments  you 
frankly  admit  it,  and  you  are  inclined  to  smile 
with  me  at  your  conceit.  You  have  not  as  yet  be- 
gun to  pool  your  selfish  interests  for  the  common 


252  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

good.  Your  workmen,  even  those  engaged  di- 
rectly in  war-time  industries,  feel  free  to  strike. 
Your  silk-stockinged  aristocracy — some  of  them — 
do  not  blush  at  profiteering.  You -let  your  irre- 
sponsible rabble  tie  up  the  production  of  timber 
for  aeroplanes  and  ships.  Negligence  or  inexpe- 
rience ties  up  the  production  of  war  materials. 
There  is  no  crime  in  that,  perhaps.  The  crime 
rests  on  you,  on  you  who  calmly  sit  and  knit  and 
give  from  your  surplus  to  liberty  loans,  on  you 
who  do  nothing  and  then  like  to  say  that  you  are 
"suffering  all  the  privations  of  war." 

But  you  are  not.  You  know  you  are  not.  The 
war  has  not  stretched  its  ghastly  finger  into  your 
homes.  You  are  not  really  at  war.  What  you 
need  is  some  awful  shock  to  arouse  you  from  your 
justifiable  lethargy.  What  you  need  is  a  bomb- 
shell dropped  blazing  into  your  land.  What  you 
need  is  a  salesman  to  sell  this  war  to  you. 

Wars  have  to  be  sold  to  a  free  and  democratic 
country.  Usually  they  are  automatically  sold  on 
the  declaration,  as  was  your  Spanish-American 
War,  your  Civil  War,  and  your  Revolution.  But 
this  war,  let  me  repeat,  owing  to  the  circumstances 
surrounding  its  declaration,  had  no  such  bomb- 
shell connected  with  your  declaration,  and  the  re- 
sult is  that  some  one  must  go  at  the  job  of  selling 
this  war  to  the  hearts  of  the  American  people  in 


WHO  WILL  WIN  THE  WAR          253 

the  same  thorough  manner  in  which  you  have  gone 
at  the  job  of  selling  the  war  to  the  heads  of  the 
American  people. 

America  is  not  "sold"  to-day.  The  educated 
minority  are  "sold"  to  a  certain  extent.  But  how 
about  the  man  in  the  street,  the  laboring  man,  the 
vast  bulk  of  your  population,  the  man  upon  whom 
the  fate  of  this  war  and  the  fate  of  America  now 
hangs?  Go  out  and  talk  with  the  man  in  the 
streets,  and  then  form  your  opinion  as  to  whether 
or  not  America  is  willing  to  give  her  all. 

It  will  take  an  appeal  to  your  emotions  to  con- 
summate the  sale  of  this  war.  Emotions  are  the 
factors  which  bring  about  every  sale,  be  it  for 
house-paint,  automobiles,  or  wars.  Wars  are 
fought  by  men,  machines,  and  money,  but  wars 
are  won  by  the  emotions  which  actuate  those  men, 
by  the  emotions  which  actuate  those  machines  and 
that  money. 

My  hope  and  prayer  to-day  is  that  America  will 
not  have  to  wait  until  the  clouds  of  war  hang  low 
over  her  streets.  I  pray  that  she  will  not  have  to 
wait  until  her  avenues  stream  with  maimed  and 
crippled  men.  Before  that  time  comes  I  hope  that 
some  master  salesman,  some  human  engineer,  will 
rise  up  and  touch  the  spark  that  will  set  your  emo- 
tional fires  to  burning.  Before  that  time  comes 
I  hope  that  America  will  awaken  to  the  very  utter- 


254  "LADIES  FROM  HELL" 

most  fiber  of  her  soul,  and  will  steel  herself  with 
the  wrath  of  a  nation  aroused  to  a  fighting  pitch. 

For  when  your  boys  go  over  the  top  they  '11 
want  to  know  that  they  have  behind  them  not  just 
the  cold,  insensate  money  of  the  American  people ; 
they  '11  want  to  know  that  they  have  behind  them 
the  heart  and  soul  of  the  American  people. 
They  '11  want  to  know  that  the  American  people 
are  going,  over  the  top  with  them,  and  that  they 
are  fighting  mad  and  resolved  to  do  their  utmost, 
regardless  of  the  cost. 

We — all  of  us — want  America  to  be  an  ally  with 
strong,  hot  pulses,  and  not  just  the  pulsing  of 
shallow,  shoddy  sympathies,  because  when  the 
history  of  this  war  is  written  we  want  America's 
finger  to  reach  down  into  every  line.  We  want 
your  impress  on  the  book  of  German  fate. 

If  you  are  to  be  an  ally,  we  want  you  to  be  an 
ally  fired  with  the  emotions  which  fire  Great  Brit- 
ain, the  emotions  which  fire  poor,  shattered 
France.  We  want  you  to  be  an  ally  at  war  not 
with  your  men,  not  with  your  money,  not  with 
your  machines.  NO !  We  want  you  to  be  an  ally 
at  war  with  your  emotions,  at  war  with  your 
hearts,  at  war  with  your  inmost  and  uttermost 
souls! 

THE   END 


